


Hope and Healing

by gomez36000



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 71,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29445693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gomez36000/pseuds/gomez36000
Summary: 'Colors vary, hues may shine. As lavender sings, "Please be mine."'The world is often hard and unkind to young teenagers and the Wizarding World is no exception. Between violent animosity from his relatives and keeping his home life a secret while living at the wonder that is Hogwarts, Harry wants nothing more than to live a normal life. Free of the dark, wizard or otherwise. 4th yr AU
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Harry Potter
Comments: 90
Kudos: 138





	1. Double Marks

**Chapter 1: Double Marks**

The Quidditch World Cup had been, by Harry’s estimation, everything he should have wanted from the often bizarre world to which he belonged.

For ten glorious months, anyway.

With heart-stopping dives, chanting, spell-flinging fans, beautiful women who became fierce avian furies to hurl fireballs at leprechauns, and premium seats among Ambassadors and Ministers, it should have been one of the best days of his life.

Looking back, he would only agree that it was instead one of the most pivotal.

Music and revelry filled the late afternoon air outside the Quidditch World Cup Stadium; riotous and loud and altogether as invasive as the roaming stench of firewhisky and sick.

Harry stepped to the side, avoiding a stumbling man’s attempt to turn him into a support. A quick flinch to the side kept him out of the way of flailing arms and he tried to pretend he didn’t hear the heavy thud or intoxicated groan that followed.

It wasn’t a hard thing to do.

Music filled the air and mixed with blaring amplified voices from giant advertisements charmed to shift every minute to try to sell some fancy item he had never seen before.

_Balkin’s Blasters_

_Pest Control for a Busy Wizard_

or

_Titania’s Crystals_

_Divine your future through secretive realms_

or

_Firebolt_

_Official broom of Viktor Krum_

all hung in the air on a rotation, the last sending jets of light zooming through the cloudless blue sky, a mixture of browns, reds, and oranges combining to create flaming brooms sailing high overhead.

Hermione’s far-too-frequent gaze brought his attention back to Earth. As she often did during their first few weeks reunited, she watched him for something.

For what, he was afraid to ask and far more afraid to know.

The small hairs at the back of his neck had prickled since he had arrived at the Burrow the night before; finally free of another painful summer with his relatives, only to find that he was under near-constant surveillance by one of his few friends.

His suspicions had been confirmed earlier when he’d spotted an appraising half-smile crossing her face when he’d been caught scanning the Top Box during the Veela mascot’s show, and again during their transformative blazing orange rampage.

Ron had been right. Tickets like theirs to the World Cup was a once in a lifetime opportunity and he knew he should have been more excited, more demonstrative, just...more.

But it was hard to shake the lingering welts that had made it painful to sit back in the chair and watch the match, or the nagging voice in the back of his head following a curious thought that reminded him he was meant to be seen not heard.

Another drunken fan, his team preference unknown due to the fact that the middle-aged wizard had stripped himself of whatever jersey he’d been wearing, sprinted through the middle of their group, parting the Weasleys to either side of the narrow path.

More such paths stretched to either side, leading the thousands of attendees back to the campsites to continue either their celebrations or to nurse their wounded pride. Off to their left, however, Harry caught glimpses of red jerseys and silver hair as the Bulgarian team trudged back to their camp in defeat, their site just on the other side of a copse of trees from where the Weasley’s had set up their tents.

Mr. Weasley’s VIP tickets had afforded them special accommodations, allowing them access to a very small group of campsites that, prior to the match, both teams had wandered through, signing autographs and posing for pictures.

“Mate?”

Ron’s sudden voice made him jump and he masked it with a long stretch. Both his friends were staring at him.

“Er…what?” Harry said, scratching at his nose. “Sorry. I wasn’t listening.”

Hermione followed his gaze through the trees. The tips of his ears burned when she turned back to him with a knowing smile.

“Tell Hermione that the Wronski feint isn’t ‘some flashy dangerous move that could get someone killed’.”

He cast his thoughts back to the heart-stopping dive that had taken Ireland’s Seeker out of the game and sent the crowd into a raucous chant of ‘Viktor Krum! Viktor Krum!’

“It’s the first time I’ve seen it,” Harry said, “but I’m pretty sure I remember Wood mentioning it at some point. Even if it was a warning.”

Rather than join in the fledgling argument, he kept his mouth shut, glad for the distraction to Hermione’s inquisitive nature.

It wasn’t easy to shrug off the Dursley-shaped weight that sat impediment on his mind so soon after leaving Privet Drive, but if she was so focused on him already, he needed to try harder.

He shook his head.

The only way to be sure he didn’t slip up was to force it out of his mind and make sure nobody saw the healing bruises on his side and back. Maybe he could swipe a potion from Madam Pomfrey to use at the end of each summer.

Despite his best efforts, a black pit settled on his chest as he stepped around a graying wizard laying on the ground whose cheeks were redder than the jersey he sported. If Sirius hadn’t been forced back into hiding, he would never have had to go back to live with people who hated him.

For one glorious moment, he’d had the weight of his relatives lifted off his shoulders. Dumbledore’s Patronus rescuing them by the lake, and Pettigrew’s subsequent escape had ruined that for him.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice poked its way through his darkening thoughts.

With a silent curse, he brought his thoughts struggling back into the present to find that they had made it back to their campsite. Mr. Weasley was hunched over the firepit, a flint and steel held awkwardly in his hands.

“Are you okay?” She asked, putting words to his least favorite question. Despite his proficiency at it, he didn’t like lying to his friends.

“I’m fine. Ron’s snoring kept me up, so I’m pretty tired.”

Not an outright lie. Ron’s snoring had been atrocious. Better at least to offer some semblance of truth.

“Oi!” Ron said, dropping down onto the ground next to the as yet unlit fire. “I’m not that bad.”

“I would have woken up not long after that anyway,” Harry said with a quick shrug. “It was no big deal.”

“While I believe it’s always productive to start your day early, I’m not sure getting up at the crack of dawn is quite the way to do it,” Hermione admonished.

“He’s always been an early riser,” Ron said from the ground. “Lay off, Hermione. I don’t think he came to the World Cup to be nagged to death.”

She huffed and stomped over to the girls’ tent, following Ginny inside with an angry toss of her head.

Harry sat down next to Ron, declining Mr. Weasley’s offer to try out the flint and steel. The long grass made for a comfortable seat in their sizable campsite. A small ring of dirt surrounded the large stone-ringed firepit, while small paths of tamped down grass branched out to their tents. 

Bill watched his father, spinning his light-brown wand between his fingers. The idle movement stopped when one of the sparks finally took and a tiny flame sprang to life in the mix of dry twigs and grass. The elder Weasley laughed in delight, blinking his eyes rapidly against the puff of smoke that floated into his face as he hovered over the tiny fire.

Late afternoon wore into evening with conversation and slightly burnt food cooked over the eventually roaring fire. Hermione rejoined the group shortly after leaving, though she made it a point to sit on the other side of Harry, opposite Ron. After the sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving only faint wisps of red painting the clouds, Hermione turned to Harry with a sly smile when Ron got up to play a game of Quaffle Catch with Charlie and the Twins.

He eyed her, deciding not to give her the satisfaction of reacting. It was the same expression as when she had caught him staring at the beautiful silver-haired witch in the top-box, and again when he’d colored from meeting the woman’s curious gaze as they’d left.

It wasn’t difficult to beat Hermione in a battle of wills, most especially when there was something she wanted to know. A simple war of attrition would see her crack soon eno-

“So, how’d you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Keep from acting like an idiot around those Veela? The others nearly lost it when the first came into the box with us, not to mention when those cheerleaders came out.”

Her curiosity faded, replaced by concern.

“What were they thinking? People jumped onto the field to get to them when they were dancing. Someone could’ve been hurt. Not to mention when they got angry…” 

“I didn’t do anything,” he answered, shrugging.

They _had_ been beautiful, including the younger one that had joined them in the premium seats, but he hadn’t felt whatever it was that made the others vie for their attention.

At least…any more than he’d normally want the attention of someone so good looking. He grimaced at the memory of him returning the woman’s glance with a blank one of his own.

“What even are Veela?” he asked instead; an attempt at diversion.

To his surprise, Hermione shrugged.

“I don’t know much about them. As far as I’m aware, they’re classified as magical beings, similar to Vampires. As such, they’re not taught in schools, and information is somewhat hard to come by, besides what people already know. They have some allure that makes most men lose their wits, they can transform into bird-like creatures, and they can throw fire.”

“But you’re muggle-born, and I might as well be. How do you know all of this and I don’t?”

A superior smile met his question before it faded away. 

“I don’t spend half the school year on a broom with my head in the clouds. How you aren’t in constant awe of the magical world is beyond me.”

“I dunno. It seems…normal. Even with all the weird stuff it has.”

“Harry, you’ve turned into a different person before. An entirely different human being. You’ve stabbed a giant snake in the mouth-”

He shushed her, glancing over to where Ginny sat nearby.

“Sorry,” Hermione said, chagrined. “But my point stands. You’ve spent over half your life thinking you were just some normal person, and you’re going to tell me you aren’t the least bit curious about the fact that vampires are real?”

It was Harry’s turn to shrug. In truth, he’d spent over half his life hearing, and dutifully repeating, the admonition that he was a freak. It had been a relief to finally understand why.

The thought of his relatives sent a stab of pain through the angry bruise on his side, a stark reminder of the other life he led. He pushed the thoughts away and focused on Hermione.

“You don’t think all magic is fascinating,” he pointed out. “You quit divination.”

“Because it’s not magic at all. It’s phony theatrics and lies.” She huffed, gesturing to the stadium. “Do you see any other form of magic advertising like those crystal balls? ‘Titania’s Crystal Balls’? No other branch of magic has things like that. If you saw that on the muggle telly, you’d think it was a scam.”

He nodded, though he couldn’t relate. It was against the rules for him to watch anything at all on the Dursley’s fancy television.

“They had Krum up there selling Firebolts,” Ron said, back from his game. “How’s that any different?”

“Yes, an athlete selling expensive equipment with promises to make you more skilled. How _novel_.”

Ron shook his head and Harry could see the frustration already returning to his friend’s features.

“Are the players going to come through again?” Harry asked, hoping to avoid the argument he could see forming. “I saw the chasers spin their brooms in a way I’d never seen and wanted to ask about it. I bet I could use it to catch the snitch when it flies underneath me.”

“I hope so. I still don’t have Krum’s autograph.”

Hermione let their conversation die and stood, stepping over to where Bill loitered with a butterbeer in hand. She had mentioned wanting to ask the Curse Breaker about his job and had clearly decided that yet more Quidditch talk was the time to do so.

“I don’t know what she expects,” Ron griped. “It’s the Quidditch World Cup, after all.”

“Knowing her, she probably hoped it’d help her make sense of it all.”

“Fat chance of that,” Ron said with a laugh. “She nearly jumped out of her seat when Krum pulled out of that dive and Lynch hit the ground. Magnificent it was…”

Harry let himself be dragged into more Quidditch talk, the safe topic, and Ron’s enthusiasm made it easy to slip further away from Harry the freak and back to what felt most like himself.

Midnight came and went, the nearby parties losing none of their exuberance or their penchant for loud song and louder fights. Mr. Weasley finally called an end to their own mild party and shooed the younger participants to bed.

Harry joined Ron at their bunk and changed into his sleeping clothes. He pulled the ratty drawstring tight on Dudley’s old threadbare bottoms and tied it in a quick knot. Fred and George would never let him hear the end of it if his trousers fell to the floor in the middle of the tent.

He climbed into the top bunk, taking care not to exacerbate his aching side. 

His last thought as he drifted off to sleep was a hope that, for once, his body would let him sleep a bit longer than when it normally woke so early in the morning.

~~XxX~~

Rough hands jerked him awake. His eyes snapped open and his arms flailed protectively in front of his face.

Had he overslept? It’d been a long time since he’d made such a costly mistake.

A voice filtered through the foggy confusion, and a blurry figure materialized next to him as he blinked. 

“Get up,” Mr. Weasley said, bending down to shake Ron awake. “Grab your things and put on some clothes. Quickly. We’ve got to go.”

“Whazzat?” Ron grumbled from below.

“Now!”

Harry sped into motion at the near-shout, blind panic pounding in his chest. He threw his trousers on over his pajama bottoms and snatched his wand and glasses from his bed. Once they dressed, he hurried outside and into pandemonium.

Shouts and screams echoed through the campsites, though just as indistinct as before, the panic held inside them made the hair on Harry’s neck rise in response. The near distance shone orange as tents burned, the flames licking at the nearby treeline. Shadows flashed in front of the burning camps as people ran and a loud crack sounded nearby as a flaming branch fell. 

None of these things pulled at Harry’s attention for long, for over the nearby stadium hung a shimmering green skull, its rictus smile parting to allow a snake to slither out into the cloudy night sky. The snake cast an eerie emerald glow onto the low-hanging clouds, the reflected light bathing the area around them into a muted green hue.

Bill cursed and tightened his grip on his wand, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Harry fumbled his out of his pocket.

“The Dark Mark,” Charlie breathed, his own wand held loosely in one hand, hanging limp at his side.

Ginny and Hermione hurried out of their tent, both stopping short as they surveyed the area. Hermione’s hands flew to her mouth when she caught sight of the mark.

Mr. Weasley waved them over to the group. “Good, that’s everyone. Stay tight together.” He pointed to Bill. “You stay at the back. Charlie and Percy to either side. The rest of you stay between us. Wands up, everybody.”

He pointed with his free hand away from the stadium. The group turned as one, Ginny’s shoulder bumping into Harry’s arm as they moved.

They had yet to clear the edge of their spacious campsite when the green glow suffusing the area grew brighter and more malevolent. Mr. Weasley turned to the source and even with the colored light, Harry could see the blood drain from his normally jovial features.

A second mark hung in the sky, its skull visage so near that they could see the snake materialize behind the closed jaw.

Orange light sprang to life from the direction of the team camps, screams of terror following close behind.

“Dad-” Bill began, stepping forward.

Mr. Weasley pushed his lips into a thin line, his gaze locked on the skull overhead.

“It’s the Ministry’s job,” he said. “I can’t put you all in danger.”

“But we’re the Ministry,” Percy said, his brow furrowed. His wand hand trembled but he ignored it. “A part of it, anyway.”

“We’ll help,” Harry said, drawing a startled glance from both Ron and Hermione.

“Absolutely not!” Mr. Weasley snapped. “But you’re right, Perce. Bill, you’re coming with me. Charlie, Percy, you get everyone to the safe areas the Ministry should be setting up. It should be near to where we portkeyed in. We’ll check to see if there’s anything we can do, then meet up with you there.”

Charlie nodded his assent and Mr. Weasley and Bill broke off, sprinting between the tents and into the woods that separated their camp from where the teams stayed.

“Let’s go!” Charlie shouted, waving an arm for everyone to move. “Percy, you get to the front, you’re better at directions than I am. I’ll be at the back.”

Percy did as he was told, his numerous freckles standing in stark contrast to the pale but determined set to his features. With a mutter, light sprang to life at the end of his wand and the rest followed suit.

“Stay close and watch your step,” he said, leading them from the camp and into the nearby woods. “If somebody does come after us, duck behind a tree and let me and Charlie handle it.”

Orange light blazed bright through the trees from behind them, illuminating the darkness. Other smaller groups ran through the trees not too far away, some clutching bags, others holding crying children to their chests. The light faded, leaving them to the much fainter illumination of their spells.

There was a yelp and a hand grabbed at Harry’s sleeve. With a muffled thud, Ginny fell to the rocky ground with a gasp of pain. In moments, Charlie was crouched next to her, calling for the group to stop.

“I-I didn’t see it,” she muttered, her voice a hoarse whisper. “My eyes weren’t-”

“It’s okay,” Charlie said, turning his broad back to her. “Climb on, and don’t put any weight on your ankle. It doesn’t seem broken, but we shouldn’t risk it.”

He grunted as he stood, Ginny’s small arms wrapped tight around his neck.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, her eyes closed tight against the pain.

“Trade places,” Fred said, pointing to Charlie. “Gin’s not going to be the one with her back to all that business.”

“We’ll stand at the back,” George added, already moving. “But let’s get going. The further away we are the better.”

Without further discussion, the group continued their trek through the woods. Eventually, the green light stopped peeking through breaks in the canopy and the flickering firelight was nowhere to be seen. Aside from a curse and a stumble from Ron, there were no further accidents and the trees finally began to thin as they neared the edge of the woods.

Percy waved a hand, signaling them to stop, and he stepped forward, taking shelter behind a large tree at the tree line. He stuck his head out and looked around and his shoulders sagged in relief.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re here. I can see a medical station set up next to the safe zones, so we can get Ginny’s ankle looked at.”

They stepped out into the clearing, Harry realizing with surprise that he knew where they were. Off in the near distance to their right was the hill that had seen them deposited roughly onto the ground upon their arrival. Percy led them to a small group of open canopies where a few witches and wizards in white tended to a handful of people.

“What’s wrong?” one of the witches asked as they drew close.

“Broken ankle, maybe,” Charlie answered, lowering Ginny gently to the ground.

Harry looked to the medi-witch and started when he saw the man she was working on. Half the hair on the left side of his head had been burned away and his skin was an angry, mottled red.

The man grimaced as the witch’s wand gingerly tapped the burned area and Harry found his hand subconsciously raising to the left side of his face. Forcing it back down to his side, he looked over at Ginny. 

It could’ve been so much worse.

“I’m sorry,” the medi-witch said, shifting through a large pocket at the front of her robes. “We’ll help you as soon as we’re able, but we need to prioritize the more critically injured first.” 

She produced a potion and handed it to the man before rushing to help a new arrival who held a limp form in their arms. To Harry’s surprise, it was Bill, and held delicately in his arms was one of the Bulgarian cheerleaders, her long silvery hair brushing the ground. 

After a quick diagnostic and a determination of simple exhaustion, Mr. Weasley and Bill joined the rest of them, the latter gently setting the unconscious Veela on the ground.

More people trickled out of the nearby woods, some at a dead sprint, some peering around the perimeter trees to check for safety as Percy had done. Some hurried to the medical tents, various burns, scrapes, and broken bones adorning the newcomers. The twin skulls surveyed the panicked people scattered below, beady points of a familiar emerald light shining in deep black eye sockets.

The pace of fleeing people began to slow and an elderly medi-wizard shuffled over to where Ginny sat, offering a small vial of bright blue liquid with admonitions to drink it one gulp to avoid the sour after-taste. Her lips puckered after a quick gulp, and a deep sigh of relief followed as she extended her leg, rolling her ankle in the air.

The Veela stirred, her light blue eyes fluttering open. She sat up with a quiet groan, eying Bill as he squatted down to assist. The fine red fabric at the back of her dress was shredded, exposing angry, discolored skin beneath.

“Perce, Ron, boys, you four go over there,” Mr. Weasley said, pointing to an empty medical tent nearby. “She’ll want some time to recover and it’ll be harder to get you lot to leave once she’s feeling better.”

The four stepped away reluctantly, their gazes, with the exception of Percy’s, lingering on the injured woman.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice a rough, accented whisper. “And thank you for coming to my aid. Not many would have done so.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Weasley said. “Besides, we didn’t do much. They ran once they saw us coming. How’s your…er…back?”

A small smirk lifted a corner of her pallid lips. “It stings but it is otherwise unhurt. We are hardier in our other forms, and the spell impacted one of my wings.” She patted the side of her deep red dress and frowned. “I suppose it is too much to hope that he dropped my wand in his haste?”

“Ah. I had wondered why you…no matter. I’m sorry. Before we could do anything, you collapsed and changed back.”

Her perfect features twisted into a grimace. “Gregorovich will not be happy to construct me another wand. He said he’d make me one out of plywood next time instead of holly. And as short as my thumb.” She sighed. “Perhaps they will be apprehended, and will recover my wand.”

“I can pass along a message to Barty Crouch,” Mr. Weasley offered. “He’d be the one in charge of something like this.”

“Nine inches. Holly, with a Dragon-Heartstring core.” A wan smile crossed her features before it fell away and her gaze flitted over to where some of the other injured people were staring at her. “I hope you do not find it rude, but I should go find my sisters. It is…uncomfortable to be among others in this way. I am unsure how I could repay your kindness…”

“Arthur. And my son, Bill. Charlie, Ginny, Hermione, and Harry.”

Harry saw her eyes flit up to his scar, but she made no comment, instead returning her gaze back to Arthur and Bill. “I am Mariika. If they find anything, or if you may somehow require my assistance, please let me know. I am in your debt.”

“No, no. No debt,” Mr. Weasley answered quickly. “We don’t need any of that now. It’s just what any sensible person would’ve done.”

“You are far too kind,” she said. “Regardless, my offer stands.” 

She rose from her place on the ground and brushed bits of grass from the back of her dress. 

“Thank you again.”

“Actually,” Mr. Weasley interrupted, pointing towards the safety zones the Ministry had erected nearby. “There’s Barty and the Minister now. They may know where your sisters ended up.”

Harry looked over to see the Minister approaching alongside a stern-faced man with sunken features and what seemed to be a perpetual frown. Mariika turned to greet them, her hands clutched in front of her.

“You must be Mariika,” Crouch said by way of greeting, his severe frown somehow growing deeper. “Your companions will be glad to know you’re okay.”

“I am,” she said, confused. “How did you know?”

“They reported two missing. Yourself, and Ashye. We found Ashye already. She didn’t make it.”

“Merlin’s sake, have some tact, Barty,” the Minister cut in. “We’re sorry to be the bearers of such terrible news,” he continued, addressing the pale-faced Veela. “But the rest of your family is safe, and just over there. Come along, we’ll take you to them.”

“Go ahead, Minister,” Barty said. “I want to talk to Arthur for a moment. His campsite was nearest to theirs, and I’d like to know what happened.”

“Good work, Arthur. William,” Crouch said, his gaze darting to where the Dark Marks still hung in the sky. “Did you get a look at who did it?”

The two men shook their heads.

“They were in their old getups,” Mr. Weasley said with a sigh. “It was a pair of them and we didn’t even hear them say anything. When we got there, that young woman had already transformed, and they ran once they saw us. She said one of them got her wand, so I can only assume the second already had one.” He frowned, following Crouch’s stare to the marks. “What’s going on, Barty? They never did two marks before. Why now?”

“I don’t know. But I aim to find out.” Mr. Crouch glanced down at Harry, his frown twisting into something that could have been an attempt at a smile. “I’d like to think we won’t need your services this time, Mr. Potter, if it is indeed something to do with You-Know-Who. Though, I expect it’s likely nothing more than a select few looking to cause some panic. The dead don’t come back to terrorize the living unless they’re ghosts, and somehow I doubt that would be what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would have chosen.”

Harry felt a churning inside his chest. Anxious thoughts flew through his mind as his arm burned where a basilisk fang had pierced him, and a phantom throb behind his scar as Quirrell burned beneath his touch. He clenched his jaw shut and forced himself to take control of his spiraling thoughts.

Better to be seen than heard.

Ideally neither.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, back at the beginning. Quite a bit different than you remember (if you'd read the old version). I hope you enjoy this new version and regular updates. You'll see a new chapter every 3 days.
> 
> I do, of course, need to thank Triage, Honorversefan, Golod, Raph, Nauze, Blazor, Red, Charl, and loads of people in the flowerpot server. Especially sprint gang, who helped me bring this bad boy home. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!


	2. Professors New and Old

**Chapter 2: Professors New and Old**

“Inside with you! Go on!” Mrs. Weasley ushered the exhausted group into the Burrow with her husband bringing up the rear.

The house was warm against the cool of the pre-dawn morning, and Harry gratefully sank into a seat at the large wooden dining room table. The others joined him, each one letting out a small sigh as they dropped into the chairs. Mrs. Weasley bustled around, setting a steaming cup of tea in front of each one of them.

“Although I’m sure you’re all plenty exhausted, there’s a pinch of asphodel in it to help you sleep.”

They drank the tea in silence, a smattering of thanks drifting up once finished. Harry and Hermione followed Ron up the creaky stairs, the mild heat of below replaced with a comfortable blanketing warmth as they climbed. Hermione split off for Ginny’s room with a simple ‘goodnight’, clicking the door shut behind her.

Bone-deep exhaustion threatened to pull Harry to sleep where he stood. He blinked in an attempt to stave off the oncoming unconsciousness for just a few moments longer.

He climbed up to the transfigured top bunk after kicking off his shoes. Faint snores rose from Ron’s bed before Harry’s head had even hit the pillow. Moments later his eyes fell shut and he dreamed of Dark Marks and Veela.

~~XxX~~

It was a subdued week that passed at the Burrow following the World Cup. Bill, Charlie, and Percy often spoke with their parents in hushed whispers, the conversation falling away should any others wander past. Mrs. Weasley could often be found puttering around the living room each time Mr. Weasley left for work, glancing regularly at the ornate grandfather clock that held numerous monogrammed hands. Harry had offered to help her clean, often struggling with a distinct sense of wrongness as he watched someone else do all the work.

How else was he meant to earn the ticket they’d offered him?

A few days shy of their return to school, his aimless wanderings around the house and outside through the haphazard gardens were interrupted by the glint of something up in the sky that sent Harry’s heart soaring to meet her. Hedwig circled the tip of the Burrow, coming to rest on his outstretched arm. He reached up and scratched the top of her head, smiling as her amber eyes closed in appreciation.

“Did you have a good summer?” he asked, removing his hand from her head.

A quick nip at his fingers told him he wasn’t finished. After a quick apology and sufficient head-scratches later, Hedwig offered her leg to him. Tied with ragged brown twine was a filthy piece of parchment. Harry untied the letter and opened it, a slow smile growing on his face as he read.

_ Harry, _

_ I hope you’re enjoying your summer. I tried to send you letters, but your owl refused to take them. Then, yesterday, she picked up a quill and pecked me until I got to writing. Ruddy smart bird you’ve got here. Sorry about the state of the paper, it’s a bit of a challenge to nick parchment with a dog’s mouth. _

He ran his thumb along the top of the letter which had small, teeth-shaped indentations.

_ I’ve found somewhere to lay low for the time being, though it’s pretty far away. If you send Hedwig, it’ll probably take a while to get to me. Hopefully, we’ll be able to catch up a bit better now that she’ll bring you letters. School will be starting up soon, won’t it? I can’t wait to hear about whatever ridiculous situation you manage to get yourself into this year. _

_ Speaking of which, I never did get to thank Dumbledore for rescuing us from all those dementors by the lake. Let him know I said thanks if you get the chance. Hopefully, we’ll get the whole Wormtail situation taken care of soon, and I’ll be able to make good on my offer. _

_ Take care, _

_ Your Godfather _

_ P.S. I was joking about getting into trouble. Keep your head down. _

Harry greedily re-read the letter, savoring the faint glimmer of hope Sirius’s promise offered him before ruthlessly stuffing it away. It’d been that same spark that had made the past summer with the Dursleys so much more unbearable. Somehow, the blows and shouts stung worse knowing they had almost been avoided.

A call from the back door of the Burrow snapped him from his musings and he saw Mrs. Weasley waving him inside.

“There you are, Harry,” she said.

Rather than her usual gardening clothes and an apron over top, she wore a faded flower-print dress that clashed somewhat with her bright red hair. 

I’ve just gotten back from Diagon Alley and your things are waiting for you on the table.” She rummaged through a pocket sewn into the side of the dress as she walked over to him. “I told you you’d given me far too much,” she said, producing a small bag he’d given her from his trunk. 

With a quick shrug, he accepted the weighty pouch and slipped it into one of the overlarge pockets in his trousers. He found himself looking forward to putting on the new robes she’d gotten him. It was always a relief to have something covering Dudley’s old clothes. Once inside, he grabbed the pile of books and robes she indicated as his.

“Your dress robes are in the box on the bottom,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of picking something I thought might look quite dashing on you.”

“My dress robes?” he echoed, frowning. “What do I need those for?”

“I’m not sure, but they were on your school list for this year. Be sure to try everything on before you leave. I can always get you different ones if those don’t fit.”

He nodded and carried his things upstairs. Inside their shared room, Ron hunched over his trunk, both arms rigid as he pushed on an overflowing pile of clothes in an attempt to get the lid to shut.

“You’re going to break all your quills again,” Harry said, pushing open the lid of his own trunk with a foot, depositing his new supplies inside. “Hermione said she wasn’t going to keep lending you more.”

“She’s got…thousands…” Ron said between grunts. “A few more…won’t kill her.”

“If you say so.” Harry set his things inside his trunk, shifting his invisibility cloak to the side, covering the handful of clothes he’d deemed in good enough shape to take to Hogwarts. He set the black box on top of the invisibility cloak with a frown. Whatever Mrs. Weasley got him would probably be fine, no need to burden her with another trip to Diagon Alley on his behalf.

~~XxX~~

Hogwarts loomed across the lake, lit by the occasional flash of lightning through the torrential downpour. The older students rushed for the magic carriages, leaving the first-years with the capable if sodden form of Hagrid. The half-giant bellowed a quick hello as Harry, Ron, and Hermione ran past, their hands held ineffectually above their heads. Thunder rolled on the heels of a nearby lightning strike, making Harry jump and spurring him faster to a nearby carriage.

They scrambled up the metal steps and dropped with a wet slap into cracked leather seats with Neville taking up the fourth seat in the cramped space. Strands of wet hair stuck to his forehead, and he offered the trio a weak smile.

“I’m glad it wasn’t like this our first year. I probably would have drowned,” he said, glancing out the window to a tree line that hid the lake from view.

“Didn’t you almost fall in?” Ron asked.

Neville nodded his silent, bashful answer.

The carriage clattered along the uneven stone path, the rain drumming heavy beats upon the roof. Lightning forked across the sky, once again illuminating Hogwarts against the expansive, tempestuous sky. Once at the castle, they climbed reluctantly from the safety of the small cabin and ran for cover, their feet splashing against the slick stone.

“Over here, if you please,” Professor McGonagall called, waving them to where she stood just inside the massive doorway. “Argus will have a fit if I allow everyone to track water through the Great Hall. Stand still.” With a deft wave of her wand and a quick incantation, Harry felt the moisture leave his clothes, leaving only the droplets speckling his glasses. He wiped them on his shirt as they joined the other students waiting to be ushered into the Great Hall. To the welcome feast.

Being one of the last carriages to arrive, they didn’t have to wait long and were soon seated comfortably at the Gryffindor table. The giant room buzzed with conversation, snippets floating by as students took their seats all around them. 

The house banners hung high on the walls, with their respective point-counters sitting behind the head table. His eyes were drawn to two empty seats. One, an overlarge thick wooden chair, belonged to Hagrid, while he could only assume the other was meant for the new Defense teacher.

More fragments of conversation drifted over and he caught more mention of the World Cup. Little else had been discussed on the platform, not to mention Malfoy’s crowing as he stalked the corridors of the Express, making sure to be as big a nuisance as he could manage.

The thought sapped his excitement at being back at Hogwarts. The twin Dark Marks didn’t bode well for a normal year at school, though he hoped against hope that the oddity kept itself properly outside.

Conversation died out as McGonagall strode from the Entry Hall and up to a stool by the Head Table, upon which sat the Sorting Hat. Moments later, Hagrid led the mass of first-years through the middle of the hall. He took his place at the table and offered Harry a quick wave as Professor McGonagall began the sorting.

Harry’s stomach growled its impatience as the final student was sorted into Hufflepuff. As if in response, the table filled with the feast. Harry looked up in surprise, Dumbledore’s customary speech notably absent. Another complaint from his belly convinced him to focus on the spread in front of him, a feast in more ways than one.

He tried to pace himself. Each year previous he had overindulged, the lackluster meals the Dursleys gave him shrinking his stomach until it was much smaller than his eyes.

Taking care to only take a single piece of baked ham to his plate and serving up a helping of potatoes, he set to work. Ron piled his plate voraciously, with Hermione following suit, if a bit more subdued.

It was a struggle not to eat as fast as he could, the lingering threat of the soon-to-vanish food ever present in his mind. 

He pushed the thoughts away as best he could, instead opting to distract himself by listening in on a minor argument between Katie Bell and Fred about the most important quidditch position. Hermione made a half-hearted attempt to pull him into a conversation about their classes for the year, but he suspected his less than enthusiastic reply put her off.

The near-constant knot of anxiety in his chest began to loosen, tugged free by the familiar rumble of conversation echoing through the Great Hall. He had enjoyed his time with the Weasleys, but there was nowhere in the world that felt closer to home than Hogwarts.

The beginning of Dumbledore’s speech pulled him from his appreciation.

“There are a few announcements I must make before allowing you to retire to your warm, dry beds. As is standard, I inform our first-years that the Forbidden Forest is just that. Our students of second-year and below are not allowed to go to Hogsmeade,” he said, a faint smile lifting his mustaches as he scanned the crowd below him. Harry thought the Headmaster’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, though it was so brief he could only wonder if he’d imagined it. “It is also my unfortunate duty to announce that the Quidditch Cup will not be taking place this year.”

His announcement was met by an uproar of disapproval and Harry felt his heart sink as the complaints rose. There was little that was as freeing as flying on his broom, whether during a match or just to clear his head.

Dumbledore bore the complaints with aplomb, allowing the noise to die before speaking again. “I know many of you are disappointed by this news-”

“Hardly,” Hermione interjected under her breath, earning her a furious glare from Ron, which she returned with a smug smile.

“-however, it is not without reason. Before we get to that, there is one other item of business we must again cover. We are all regretful that Professor Lupin had to leave us at the end of last term.” Harry looked over to where Snape was sitting, looking as near to gleeful as the surly man could get. “But we have managed to secure another Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than the doors to the Great Hull banged open. A clap of thunder and lightning silhouetted a hunched figure in the massive doorway. He leaned on a large oak staff as he walked up to the head table, every other step punctuated by a loud clunk on the stone floor.

Harry caught a glimpse of the man’s false leg beneath his ratty cloak, though his attention was drawn to the far more astonishing false eye that spun wildly in all directions. The new Professor thumped his way over to the empty seat at the head table, sitting down next to Hagrid who seemed more than a little unsettled to be sitting beside the grizzled man.

“It is my supreme pleasure to introduce, Professor Alastor Moody!” Dumbledore announced, waiting until the murmurs settled before continuing. “The final announcement, and the reason we must cancel Quidditch…” he paused, allowing the dramatic pause to lengthen until a number of students began to shift uncomfortably. “We are to have the honor of hosting the fabled Triwizard Tournament!”

He allowed a moment for the exclamations of surprise to die away.

“For those unaware, the Triwizard Tournament is a prestigious competition between the three largest European schools of witchcraft and wizardry:  Beauxbâtons , Durmstrang, and of course, Hogwarts. Each school will have a champion to represent them in three challenging tasks.

“Many hundreds of years ago, the tournament was held regularly as a way to foster cooperation and friendship between the young witches and wizards of different nationalities. Unfortunately, the death toll grew too high, and it was discontinued. As an unfortunate side effect, we have grown distant from our partner schools and their peoples.”

Harry goggled up at Dumbledore. Hogwarts was occasionally dangerous but hosting a deadly tournament seemed downright irresponsible. He didn’t appear to be the only one who thought so as muttering had broken out amongst the student body.

“Please rest easy knowing that, thanks to a significant effort in foreign relations from our departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports, we have been able to engineer a tournament that will most certainly not include such significant and constant mortal peril.

“In October we will be hosting the other schools, each bringing along a small delegation of possible champions. The selection of the three champions will take place on Halloween. The winner will receive not only the Triwizard cup and glory for their school but also a one thousand Galleon prize.”

At the mention of prize money, the concerned whispers made a shift to something far more speculative. Dumbledore’s visage grew stern as he quieted the new murmurs.

“I am sure that many of you desire to compete for Hogwarts, however, there have been some necessary restrictions agreed upon and implemented for safety. We will be imposing an age limit of seventeen years and older upon the applicants who wish to compete. This measure-” he paused, holding his hands up to pacify the cries of outrage, “-is for the safety of the participating champions. We have worked tirelessly to ensure there will be little mortal danger during these tasks, but due to the nature of the tournament, there will still be significant personal risk for those involved. We believe it unlikely that any student below the age of seventeen would be able to successfully navigate the tasks we have prepared.

“The Beauxbâtons and Durmstrang students will remain with us for the majority of the school year. I know that you will be most hospitable and gracious to our foreign guests during their time with us. And now, it is late, and I have imposed upon your evening long enough. Prefects, please escort your houses to their dormitories.”

Harry stood along with Ron and Hermione and filed out alongside the other Gryffindors.

“No wonder everyone was being so cagey over the summer,” Ron said. “I knew Percy was lording something over us.” He paused, his gaze wandering up towards the ceiling and far away. “A thousand Galleons…can you imagine…”

“You won’t have to imagine little brother,” George said from behind them. “We’ll figure out a way to enter.”

“You’re going to outsmart Dumbledore?” asked Hermione.

“We’ll figure something out,” Fred answered. “I doubt he’ll be the one picking the champions.”

Harry listened with half an ear to their increasingly ridiculous plans as they climbed the castle up to Gryffindor Tower. Hermione’s suggestion of going over their schedules went unanswered and he hoped he hadn’t been too unkind about it.

It was nice to be back at Hogwarts, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the tournament was the shape of this year’s trouble.

That night, curled in his incredible, comfortable bed in the dorm room, he dreamt of his uncle’s face; glowing, vaporous, floating high in a stormy sky.

~~XxX~~

The first class of the year was a pleasant enough affair in Herbology. Professor Sprout had cultivated three dozen clippings of some sort of magical shrub, and their task had been to simply trim the plant into a neat little square. A task made slightly more difficult by the fact that it had a proclivity for dodging out of the way of Harry’s shears. Luckily, Neville was seated nearby and demonstrated that the tiny plants were ticklish and exhaustible.

Following the simple lesson, they split from the Hufflepuffs to join the Slytherins at Hagrid’s hut for Care of Magical Creatures. Though Harry was fond of the affable half-giant, his friend had a skewed perspective on what constituted a ‘good, easy lesson’. He hoped Hagrid had found something on the safer side of dangerous for their first class.

His hope flitted away as they approached the squat hut to find minor pandemonium. The Slytherins had already arrived and were standing at the edge of Hagrid’s garden patch, watching the large man struggle. Hagrid held his dirty iron fire-poker in one hand, while he pat out a smoldering patch in his thick beard.

“’S alright!” he called over the murmurs and occasional laugh. “They’re jus a little jumpy when they’re little.”

A small burst of flame from a horrible ugly worm as long as Harry’s leg caught the edge of Hagrid’s long hair and he let out a rough curse. “Finnigan, go get me tongs from around back by the firepit. Careful o' the apple barrels, I’ve got an infestation I haven’t gotten around ter takin’ care o'.”

Seamus did as he was told, disappearing around the back of the house while Hagrid blew frantically at the burning tips of his hair.

“I can see this class will be just as useless as it always has been,” Malfoy said, prompting a laugh from most of the assembled Slytherins around him.

Ron stepped forward, his hand balled into a fist, but his retort never made it out. A crash from the back of Hagrid’s hut preceded a panicked shout, and Seamus burst into view, being dive-bombed by tiny specks of light. He waved the tongs over his head in a poor defense, before it was stopped by Hagrid’s massive hand.

“No need fer tha',” he said, pulling the tongs from Seamus’s grip. “They jus thought yeh were after wha' they think is theirs. Iron’ll kill ones this small…” he trailed off. 

After a short, multi-pocketed search, he produced a silver sickle and flicked it with his thumb over towards the nearby edge of the Forbidden Forest. A few of the balls of light followed the coin, while the others ceased their attack on Seamus, and bobbed in the air in front of Hagrid. 

“Stingy little things, aren’t yeh?” he grumbled, fishing out a golden Galleon and tossing it into the tree line. The lights zipped after it, leaving tiny trails of silver and golden light behind them as they flew.

“I oughta’ take points fer tha,” he grumbled, sending Seamus back to the waiting clump of students. He gestured over his shoulder with the tongs. “Fairies won’t hurt ya, they jus like ter make a nuisance o' themselves,” he lectured, letting the tongs drop back to his side. “The little ones won’t anyway. Yeh can usually bribe 'em away with summat they like, or summat shiny.” 

He used the tongs to gingerly flip the worm back over, allowing it to scurry away.

“We’re studying fairies this year?” Lavender Brown said, her voice a mix of surprise and delight.

“What? Nah,” Hagrid said with a laugh. “We’ll be workin’ on these here Blast-Ended-Skrewts.”

“Working on what now?” Ron asked, his gaze following the worm back to where a group of them grazed on a pile of cabbages.

“Skrewts! Ornery little things, but not so bad once yeh get ter know 'em. Despite lookin’ like a worm, they’re properly trainable, an' can be good guard animals. Raising 'em is goin' ter be a bit o' a class project, these jus hatched a few days ago.”

“Why on earth would we want to do that?” Malfoy sneered from his place at the center of the Slytherin group. Harry saw even a few of the Gryffindors nodding their reluctant agreement.

“’Cause yeh wan' ter pass me class, Malfoy,” Hagrid replied coolly, before resting his two fire pokers against the side of his hut. “I know they like cabbages, but I wan' ter see wha' else they like. I’ve got a few things here fer yeh ter try.”

It was a stung, burned, bitten, and thoroughly irritated group that returned to the Great Hall at lunchtime.

“Do you think Hagrid would be upset if we didn’t take his class next year?” Ron asked, nursing a burn on his elbow.

“It’d break his heart,” Hermione said, though there wasn’t much energy behind her rebuttal.

They sat down next to the twins, who were whispering to Lee Jordan with wide-eyes.

“What’s got you two all bent out of shape?” Ron asked as he dropped onto a bench.

“Moody,” said George.

Ron frowned at them. “Dad says he was the best the Aurors ever had, but since he’s taken on so many dark wizards, he’s gone a little off his rocker.”

“Anybody’d be a little off if they had to handle stuff like that all the time,” Harry said.

“Too right,” Lee said, nodding. “He’s off his rocker, no doubt about it, but the man is brilliant. Professor Lupin was good, but Mad-Eye really knows his stuff.”

“His class was that good?” Harry asked, a small smile coming to his face. Even though he’d not managed to produce a Patronus during their private lessons, Harry had still enjoyed Defense Against the Dark Arts with his father’s old friend.

“You’ll see,” Fred and George said in unison, identical mocking grins splitting their face.

~~XxX~~

Afternoon classes were far more mundane, with Professor Trelawney predicting Harry’s violent end no fewer than five times. One particular prediction of cracked ribs and subsequent beheading was a little unnerving, the lingering twinge of pain in his side an uncomfortable reminder that one of those things had already come to pass.

The choking on a bug prediction that followed lightened his mood a little.

It wasn’t until that evening that he finally found time to write back to Sirius and he hoped his godfather wouldn’t mind the delay in his reply.

_ Sirius, _

_ I got your letter but didn’t get the chance to reply till now. Sorry. Thanks for taking care of Hedwig for me. _

He paused a moment, tapping at his chin with the quill, deciding what exactly he wanted to list from the World Cup. Had things gone normally, he’d probably have mentioned the Veela and asked questions about the unbelievable things they could do. Or the Leprechauns, that produced gold out of thin air and transformed their bodies into light. Maybe even the two sky-blue eyes that had locked on to his as he passed by, curiosity shining behind a perfect small smile.

His ears burned at the memory of being caught staring.

With effort, he forced his thoughts back on track. Pretty women aside, he knew Sirius wouldn’t appreciate being kept in the dark.

_ I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there was an attack at the World Cup. I was there with my friend Ron and his family. There were two Dark Marks in the sky, and the Death Eaters killed at least one person. _

_ Also, we’re hosting the Triwizard Tournament this year. Two other schools will be coming soon. Unfortunately, that means I won’t get much time on my Firebolt. _

_ Stay safe, _

_ Harry _

With the invisibility cloak tucked away in his robe and the letter in hand, he slipped from Gryffindor Tower. Hogwarts at night was a calm, enjoyable place to walk, the mostly-quiet halls and stairways were comforting after a long day of death predictions, skrewt burns, and ticklish plants. Not to mention the rats Professor McGonagall had insisted they attempt to transform into slippers.

As he walked the halls, he heard a now-familiar sound of reuniting couples as he passed, taking care to hurry by the closed broom closets and classroom doors to offer them some modicum of privacy. He had learned not long after he’d gotten the Marauder’s map that it was far better not to indulge his curiosity to find out who was ‘meeting’ behind closed doors.

Amidst the multitude of owls milling about in the Owlery, Hedwig sat primly on the nearest roost, almost as though she had been waiting on him.

“It’s going back to Sirius,” he whispered, tying the letter to her leg. “I know it’ll take a while, so don’t push yourself too hard.”

Hedwig gave him a reproachful look before taking flight out one of the open windows.

Message sent, he returned to Gryffindor tower and slid into bed. Even if he didn’t have to get up at dawn to prepare breakfast for the Dursleys in time to avoid discipline, he couldn’t help but wake up early regardless. After an eventful first day of classes, a good night’s sleep would not go amiss.


	3. The Goblet

The rest of the first week back passed slowly while Harry looked forward to his first class with Professor Moody. Fred and George’s mysterious ‘you’ll see’ had only served to build his excitement near to bursting by the time their defense class rolled around. 

Moody didn’t disappoint.

Their first class had been a lecture and demonstration of the Unforgivables. Moody produced a spider for each curse, the first writhing in pain beneath his wand, while the second danced across the wooden desk. The third remained in its jar while he fixed the class with a ferocious stare that was somehow unspoiled by the manic whirling of his magical eye.

“There is no defense for the final curse I’m going to show you,” he growled, fixing students at random with a glare from his beady normal eye which finished its journey on Harry. “The only person to ever survive is sitting right here in this class.”

The class held their collective breath as the doomed spider dropped onto the desk. Harry found himself transfixed by Moody’s wand as it rose, then cut a furious line through the air.

“Avada Kedavra!”

A green flash of light burst from Moody’s gnarled, lengthy wand and catapulted Harry back into his recurring nightmare.

_ “Take me! Not Harry! Please, not Harry!” _

_ “Move aside, or I will kill you as I did your foolish husband.” _

_ “No! Stay away from Harry! You can’t have him!” _

_ “Avada Kedavra!” _

Harry jolted as the same flash bloomed in his memory, bringing him reeling back to the present. 

Breath came in gasps. His hands ached with a white-knuckled grip on the edge of his desk.

“Alright, mate?” Ron whispered, glancing over at him.

Harry nodded, trying to swallow with his suddenly dry mouth. The rest of the class hung on to Moody’s every word, with the exception of Hermione. She faced him as well, concern etched onto her features though she said nothing. He did his best to listen to the rest of the lecture, but every time he closed his eyes, emerald light shone behind his eyelids.

When class finally ended, Harry stuffed his things back into his bag and rose to follow Ron and Hermione from the room.

“Potter! Longbottom!” Professor Moody called out. “Stay behind.”

Ron and Hermione hesitated, looking back with a silent question on their faces.

“I’ll catch up with you at dinner.”

Harry turned and joined a ghost-white Neville at a desk in the front of the room while they waited for everyone to leave. Once they were alone, Moody shut the door with a wave of his wand and regarded the two students.

“I kept you behind because I need to apologize to you both,” he said without preamble. Neville’s color returned amidst a flash of confusion that Harry was sure was mirrored in his own expression. “I was an Auror for a long time. I know that when you see an Unforgivable in action, seeing it again can bring back some difficult memories.”

They both looked to the ground in embarrassment.

“None of that now,” Moody said. “Aurors three times your age with a decade of experience behind them can have the very same thing happen to them. I’ve seen it, and I’ve seen it handled worse. It’s just the way normal people work. Only people like the Death Eaters can see the horrors of the Unforgivables and feel nothing afterward.” 

The click of his wooden leg rung throughout the room as Moody began to pace.

“I know your first class was difficult, but it was necessary. You’ve got to know what we’re up against, especially with those recent Dark Marks. That doesn’t mean, however, that you need to tough it out in silence. Remember, the teachers are here to help and protect you, myself included.”

Harry and Neville nodded in unison while the Professor clunked his way over to a nearby bookshelf and pulled two thick tomes from it. 

“Longbottom, I’ve heard from Professor Sprout that you’re something of a prodigy in her greenhouses. I’ve got a rare book here I confiscated from a raid on a notorious potion-makers house, a couple of years back. It’s got quite a few useful magical plants and fungi, along with some non-traditional uses for them.” 

The book he handed over was so faded that the green cover appeared mostly gray.

“And for you, Potter, I’ve got a book on advanced dark magical creatures. The notes I received from Professor Lupin said that you were quite proficient in his class. Let me know if you have any questions after reading that book. As an added bonus, you can tell anyone who asks that those were the reasons I kept you behind. That should keep people’s noses out of your business.” 

He waved his wand again and the door swung open. “Go on then. Off with you.”

Harry and Neville could only nod again before grabbing their bags and their new books. Harry tried to walk casually from the room, though his heart hammered, telling him to flee the awkward feeling sitting in his chest. He didn’t know why Moody had kept Neville behind as well, but if it was anything like his own experience, he knew better than to ask.

The walk to the Great Hall was silent, both boys lost in their own, troubled thoughts.

~~XxX~~

The following lesson with Mad-Eye was unremarkable, and it wasn’t until a few days before the other schools were due to arrive that Moody produced another unorthodox lesson.

They’d arrived to find the desks pushed against the stone walls, with only Moody’s sitting in the middle of the now open floor. A knot of anxiety rose in Harry like bile, tempered only by a small flare of curiosity. Traumatic or not, Moody’s first lesson had been interesting. Once everyone had arrived, Moody instructed them to line up along the walls, creating a ring around the open space in the middle.

“So,” he said, his magical eye whizzing about. “Who wants to be first under the Imperius?”

To nobody’s surprise, Hermione was the first to object. “But sir, casting the Imperius is illegal. The Ministry will arrest you and send you to Azkaban!”

Moody laughed his unsettling, gravelly laugh, the oddity of it forcing Hermione a step back.

“They didn't arrest me after your first class. If you want your first experience with the Imperius to be at the hands of a Death Eater, then so be it!” His shout reverberated around the room. “We’re not here to save your skin from an Imperius.”

He paused, sweeping around the room, both eyes unnaturally in sync. His voice lowered to a growl.

“Thought it may well do just that against Death Eaters, mark my words.”

A unanimous shudder rolled across the room.

“So, if you’ve any interest in protecting yourself and those you care for, then line up!”

The students scurried into position without even a whisper, the clamber of shoes across the floor reverberating through the classroom. Neville was first, his face as pale as it had been after their first lesson. Even from his place at the back of the line, Harry could see Neville trembling where he stood.

Moody raised his wand to Neville’s back, and the muttered “ _ Imperio _ ,” was loud in the otherwise silent space.

Neville’s terror slipped away, replaced by a mask of calm indifference. Without any provocation, the shy boy began cartwheeling around the room, ending his display with an impressive flip onto a desk.

With another wave of his wand, Moody ended the enchantment and Neville blinked down at them from atop the desk. He hopped down with far less grace than he had ascended with, though his nerves appeared to have settled. Neville took a place behind Harry, a contemplative look upon his face.

The mood in the room had shifted from frightened to pensive by the time Harry, Ron, and Hermione made it to their turns. Hermione was first and she shot a nervous smile over her shoulder that came to life as a frightened grimace instead.

_ “Imperio, _ ” Moody whispered, his wand pointed at Hermione’s back.

The tension in her posture slid away, and she began to pirouette around the room.

Ron gulped audibly when Hermione was released to take her place at the end of the line. Despite the dazed look in her eye, Harry could tell she was already trying to figure out the mysteries behind the Unforgivable.

Ron did cartwheels similar to Neville, though his routine ended with a handstand. Once released, he took a spot next to Hermione, his freckles standing out harshly against his pale face.

“You’re up, Potter,” Moody said, both his normal and magical eyes focused on him. He stepped woodenly forward and braced himself as best he could against the unknown.

_ “Imperio.” _

The world around him washed away.

His shoulders relaxed and his mind drifted away to weightless freedom. Where he had expected a struggle for dominance, there was only complete and utter contentment. If he tried, he could remember that he was in class and that he had watched his friends do ridiculous things. He knew he was meant to try and fight the Imperius, but he found it impossible to care.

The freedom it offered was peace on a level he had never experienced. He floated in a white void with no problems, no secrets, and no thoughts.

The whisper of a voice echoed through the empty space his worries once occupied.

‘Dance,’ it said.

It was Moody’s voice, gruff and insistent; compelling.

Dancing seemed a marvelous idea. The thought that he’d never danced for even a moment throughout his life was of no consequence. He wanted nothing more.

‘Dance,’ it repeated, the whisper growing louder, reverberant. ‘Dance!’

An image of the routine he should try appeared in his mind.

He frowned.

Thoughts shouldn’t intrude into his freedom. 

For once, he had nothing weighing him down, and he wouldn’t be pushed around in this blissful world. He forced the dance from his mind, returning to the comfort of the meditative void.

**‘Dance!’** Moody’s voice shot back, harsher.  **‘Dance now!’**

Though the voice was stronger and the thought of the dance more compelling, the feeling of utter freedom permeated Harry and bolstered him. He wouldn’t be told what to do within his own mind--the one thing he could always control.

“I won’t.”

To his dismay, he found himself on his hands and knees on the cold stone floor of the classroom. The intoxicating feeling of nothingness had vanished, replaced by a reality that threatened to drown him as it rushed back in waves. He stayed there for a moment before looking up to the astonished faces of his classmates.

“That’s how it’s done!” Moody shouted, lifting Harry roughly to his feet by an arm. “Did you all see that? Potter beat the Imperius when only a handful of you managed to put up any sort of struggle at all.”

“But why is that, Professor?” Hermione asked from where she stood next to Ron and Neville. “Does everybody experience the same thing while under the spell?”

“An excellent question. What did you feel?”

“I felt…” she paused, the edges of her mouth turned down at the thought. “I felt like I didn’t have a care in the world. Like everything had always been and would always be okay.”

Murmurs of agreement swept across the room.

“There’s your answer, Ms. Granger. Yes, the Imperius is the same for everyone, but as you saw, not everyone can fight through it.”

“But why was it so difficult to ignore the voice, even when everything felt so right?” Hermione persisted.

Moody turned to face her fully, smirking. “Because it’s much easier to be someone’s tool than to accept personal responsibility. Some become addicted to the contentment and will do anything to keep it in place, other’s minds are so weak their thoughts are thoroughly suppressed and they become a mindless slave. Others draw strength from their freedom.

“But, everyone can learn to recognize its effects and beat it,” Moody continued, slipping into a lecture. “Some just have to work harder than others. Read up on what you can of it before the next class. I’ll write passes to the restricted section for those who need them. You’re dismissed.”

The class grabbed their things and all but sprinted from the room. Harry followed Ron and Hermione down to Potions, his thoughts occupied by the far too fleeting memory of contentment.

~~XxX~~

Breath floated from between his fingers in a cloud as he blew into his frozen hands. He watched the Beauxbatons students file into the Great Hall much more gracefully than Durmstrang had done before them. Or rather, he tried to watch from his place near the back of the assembled Hogwarts students. Short as he was, he could only catch glimpses of light blue robes, though he got a good look at the Headmistress, who stood twice as tall as the student by her side. To Harry’s surprise, he heard an occasional shout through the murmurs that surrounded the French school’s arrival, but with the chill wind blowing through, they were indistinct.

Being near the back had its benefits, however, as he was one of the first to return to the relative warmth of the castle ahead of most everyone else. He made a beeline for the Gryffindor table, ignoring Ron’s pleas to at least go walk near where Viktor Krum was sitting.

Hermione’s predictable, “He’s just a seeker,” saved him from needing to reply.

Up at the Head Table, Durmstrang’s Headmaster sat between Snape and Professor Vector, drinking heavily from a goblet that might’ve fit better in Hagrid’s large hands. The gargantuan Headmistress of Beauxbatons sat on Dumbledore’s left, opposite Professor McGonagall. She too held a goblet, though she only took a small sip before setting it back to the table with a wince.

Dumbledore stood once the last of the students had settled, the commotion far louder for the castle’s new occupants.

“I have the grand honor of welcoming our guests and sister schools to our hallowed halls,” he said, waving a hand to encompass the visitors. “I do hope you find yourselves as comfortable here as you might in your own school. It is our wish that you create lasting bonds of friendship and camaraderie through the course of the tournament. After the feast, we will have a few announcements, but until then, please enjoy the wonderful meal!”

A larger spread than Harry had ever seen graced the tables in front of them. The food appeared on tiered plates, each one packed near to overflowing. Along with the standard fare, he saw two new dishes resting in front of him. Steam rose from both, fogging his glasses. 

The first was some sort of dumpling that had been stuffed to translucence with meats of various types. The second was a stew of unknown contents. He put one of the dumplings on his empty plate and opted to fill the rest with food he was more familiar with.

When he had finished, he’d nearly felt the need to pop the button on his trousers as he’d often seen his Uncle do. He had gotten better about overeating during the normal meals, but feast days were a special occasion. He was about to lean back and stretch when a distinct and melodious feminine voice spoke from behind him.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice accented but clear. “Would you mind if I took the bouillabaisse from your table? It is one of my favorites and we have eaten ours.”

When he turned, his heart gave such a deafening thump that he was surprised he hadn’t deafened her. The tall, beautiful, and now that Harry was much closer, admittedly well-figured witch with the silver-blond hair from the World Cup was standing not a foot away from him. 

Her curious sky-blue eyes bored into him much as they had in the top-box when she’d caught his eye as they’d passed, though he noticed them flit up to look at his scar. She made no reaction, which pleased him, but the normalcy of the movement served to bring him back to himself.

“Sure,” he said, turning to look over his shoulder at the table. “But I’m not sure which-”

“I can make you some!” Ron burst out, his sudden shout making Harry jump.

He looked over to his friend in shock. Not once in their years together had his friend mentioned that he’d ever cooked a single meal.

“The one on the table will be adequate,” she said, not once looking at Ron. “May I?” she asked instead, nodding to the untouched pot of soup.

With a nod, he slid to the side so she could reach. He regretted the awkward movement the moment the cloth of her robes brushed his shoulder.

A polite person would have stood up.

A faint wispy scent of cinnamon drifted to him as she reached past and grabbed the stew. She stood and inclined her head in thanks, a small smile adorning her lips.

When he turned back around, Ron continued to stare, glassy-eyed in her direction. Harry shook his head and turned forward to find an annoyed Hermione glaring at their friend.

“Snap out of it, Ronald. You’re making a fool of yourself,” she said, leaning over the table to swat him on the arm. The sharp contact brought him out of it, and he shook his head.

“She’s a Veela,” he said after a moment. “Just like at the World Cup. Made my head go all fuzzy.”

“She is very pretty,” Hermione allowed, if a bit reluctant. “But that doesn’t mean she’s Veela. They’re exceedingly rare. Besides, the people in the top-box with us at the World Cup didn’t turn stupid.”

“But she’s got that silvery hair like the ones on the pitch did, and she does that weird thing to you, just like they did. You both felt it, right?”

Hermione crossed her arms. “Firstly, there are many potions and spells that can change your hair color. She could even be a metamorphmagus. Although that would be far less likely than being a Veela.”

“A metamorph-what?”

“Honestly, Ron. It’s like you don’t even care that you live in an incredible, magical world,” she snapped. “Look it up! Besides, even if she was one, I wouldn’t feel anything because I’m a girl.”

Ron turned to Harry, his wide-eyes begging for some sort of life preserver. “You felt it too, right, Harry?”

Harry shrugged in apology. “I didn’t feel my mind go fuzzy or anything. Sorry,” he said quietly.

“You see?” Hermione said triumphantly. “It’s incredibly uncommon for someone to be able to resist a Veela’s allure, though it doesn’t work on…” she trailed off, glancing to Harry before refocusing on Ron. “Nevermind. The point is, she’s probably not a Veela.”

“That’s not a normal girl,” Ron persisted, jerking his head down the table where both Neville and Seamus still stared after Fleur, besotten.

“She’s probably just as normal as the rest of us,” Hermione shot back, anger tinting her cheeks pink. “Don’t you dare start sounding like the Slytherins, calling anyone with mixed blood a ‘that’.”

Ron wilted, then nodded. He didn’t speak for the rest of the meal, except once to timidly ask someone to pass a pumpkin pastie. When the desserts had vanished and the conversation slowed, Dumbledore stood.

At some point during the feast, two men had joined Dumbledore and Harry was surprised to recognize them both. Ludo Bagman, a chubby man who had been the announcer at the World Cup, and Barty Crouch. Even in the middle of a school, he appeared as though he were preparing to interrogate someone about a murder, rather than listening to the Headmaster talk.

“And now, let us discuss the Triwizard Tournament,” Dumbledore said into the noisy room, his words calming the dinnertime conversations. “Allow me to introduce two of the key organizers for this event, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, and Mr. Ludo Bagman.”

Bagman waved as his name was called, while Crouch simply nodded.

“Mr. Crouch is our head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation and has been working tirelessly with our Ambassadors to bring us both the Quidditch World Cup and the Triwizard Tournament. It is our hope that these events will strengthen our bonds with our friends from the continent. Mr. Bagman is our head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and has worked alongside Mr. Crouch, Headmaster Karkaroff, Headmistress Maxime, and myself to set up the tasks that our champions must overcome.”

Mutterings broke out across the students at the end of Dumbledore’s speech, which he quieted with a raised hand.

“I know you are all wondering about the details of the tournament, so I will attempt to assuage your curiosity. First things first, allow me to show you how we will determine our illustrious champions.”

He waved a hand toward the door nearest the staff table and all eyes moved to follow. Filch strode out of the room carrying a large wooden chest that he placed between Dumbledore and Mr. Crouch before sliding back into the shadows along the wall.

“We have worked countless hours to devise a series of tasks that are worthy of the Triwizard title but aren’t as deadly as its predecessors. Although the chance of mortal injury is reduced, do not think the tasks will be simple spell casting or minor puzzles. The champions will still be pushed to the peak of their abilities and beyond; magically, physically, and mentally. They must be able to think on their feet and adapt to new and dangerous situations as they arrive.”

He stooped to open the chest, tapping it on its lid with his knobby wand. Everyone sat up a little straighter to get a glimpse of what lay inside.

“This,” he said, straightening up with something held in his hand, “is the Goblet of Fire.”

True to its name, pale, ethereal blue flames filled the wooden goblet.

“The selection process is simple,” Dumbledore continued. “Anyone who wishes to be considered for champion will place their name and school on a piece of parchment and drop it into the Goblet. You will have twenty-four hours to submit your name. We will announce the champions after the Halloween feast tomorrow night.”

Speculative conversation filled the Great Hall with indistinct chatter.

“Before we go any further, we must discuss a few rules. Firstly, as the danger has been lessened, but is still not insignificant, allow me to remind you that we will require all students applying to be of majority age.”

His pronouncement was met with a veritable roar of disapproval, two of the loudest being from Fred and George, voicing their same concerns from the opening feast.

“This is non-negotiable,” Dumbledore continued over the din, quieting the room. “I will be placing an age-line around the Goblet to dissuade any who think to circumvent this rule. Secondly, this is a warning to those who would reach for the glory of being the Triwizard Champion. Once your name is in the Goblet, you are placed in a magically binding contract. You will be unable to withdraw without sacrificing your magical abilities. I implore you to consider yourself and your skill before entering your name. 

“The Goblet will be placed in the Entry Hall tonight and will be available to those students wishing to enter. And now, I bid you goodnight.”

Conversation rose among the students as they stood, benches scraping against the floor. A few shouts mingled in with the noise and Harry turned his head to see the beautiful girl slip out of the Great Hall before everyone else.

“I wonder who the Hogwarts champion will be,” Ron wondered aloud.

“Dunno,” Harry said. “I don’t know many seventh-year students.”

Ron glanced over his shoulder to where Dumbledore had set the goblet on the head table. “I wish I could enter.”

“You’d die,” Hermione said flatly. “You heard Dumbledore. There’s a chance that a seventeen-year-old champion will be killed. Someone our age wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Being dead might finally get you off my back,” Ron shot back.

She offered him a glare that was part venom, part hurt, and she stormed ahead of them and out of sight. Ron stayed foul-tempered all the way back to Gryffindor tower, only beginning to perk up when Fred and George began detailing their idea for getting through Dumbledore’s age line.

Later that night, Harry and Ron climbed the stairs to the dorms. It’d taken some coaxing, but Ron’s mood had finally shifted back to something a bit less sour, and it’d only taken one sacrificial game of wizards’ chess to do it. Out of practice, Harry hadn’t lasted long, but he’d done a good enough job for Ron to be satisfied when his knight brought Harry’s king to his knees.

They opened the door to their dorm to find both Seamus and Dean wearing unusual robes. To Harry’s amazement, rather than their standard black robes for school, they appeared to be embroidered and surprisingly colorful. Dean's was a deep red, almost black, in the dim light with matching embroidered designs tracing over the shoulders and down the arms. Seamus’s was a near to gaudy gold, with stripes of black across the bottom half that saved him from looking like a bumblebee by virtue of their verticality.

The two boys turned to Harry and Ron, grins on their faces. “What sort of affair did you two get saddled with?” Dean asked, jerking his thumb over to Seamus. “He got stuck with his dad’s old set. I doubt yours will be quite the eyesore his are.”

“It’s growing on me,” Seamus said, his Irish accent still thick from the summer holiday. “I doubt people will be able to keep their eyes off me.”

“For the wrong reasons,” Ron said, walking over to his trunk. “I haven’t checked mine yet. What about you, Harry?”

“Me neither,” he said, casting his mind back to the small black box that had sat among his other school things. He trusted Mrs. Weasley, but he couldn’t get the image of her faded flower-print dress out of his mind.

“You first,” Ron said, producing a faded maroon box from the depths of his trunk. He frowned down at the package in his hand.

Harry pulled his garment box from where it rested atop his invisibility cloak and slipped the red ribbon off with a brush of his hand. He set it on his bed and pulled the lid off, exposing the folded robe held inside. A silent sigh of relief escaped him when he found his new robes flower-print free. Mrs. Weasley wouldn’t give him something garish on purpose…but he hadn’t been able to fully banish the worry.

He lifted the black robe and turned to show it to the others. Green accents adorned the front with silver embroidery tracing a leafy pattern through the colored sections. A simple while shirt and black trouser pair remained sitting inside the box.

Dean whistled. “Sharp robes…but…”

“You know you’re not in Slytherin, don’t ya’?” Seamus finished for Dean, gesturing to Harry’s robes as he turned them around to inspect the front.

“Mrs. Weasley got them for me,” he said, frowning down at the garment. “She knows I’m in Gryffindor…”

“Who knows what Mum thinks sometimes,” Ron said, fiddling with the lid to his box. “She makes those ugly sweaters for us every y-” He went silent as he lifted his robe into the air, a frilly monstrosity hung between his hands.

Thin sleeves ended in voluminous folds with the top layer the same faded red as the rest of the robes, with off-white fabric beneath. The frills culminated in a bulbous collection just below the neckline that looked more akin to a tumor than a fashion statement.

“Fantastic,” Ron muttered into the awkward silence that had descended on the dorm. He stuffed the embarrassing clothes into his trunk and slammed the lid shut. “Just fantastic.”

~~XxX~~

Sleep had done little to improve Ron’s mood, and Hermione’s lingering frostiness only compounded his seething anger. They ate breakfast in heavy silence, though by unspoken agreement, each one of them ate a little faster than normal in a rush to go see who would put their names in the goblet.

They were almost finished when the morning post arrived, the normal flock of owls bolstered by what Harry could only presume was foreign birds. Owl after owl dropped a letter in front of a stone-faced Viktor Krum. Hedwig landed in front of Harry, drawing his attention back forward.

“That was quick,” he said, offering a piece of bacon before untying the letter. He received a nip on the back of the hand as an angry response, and he offered more bacon as an apology. Hedwig stole a third piece from Ron’s plate before flying off to rest in the owlery.

“Ruddy bird,” Ron grumbled under his breath as Harry opened the letter.

_ Harry, _

_ I heard about what happened at the World Cup, even all the way out here. I’ve been stealing copies of the Prophet to try to stay as up to date as I can, though I think the butcher I’ve been getting them from has it out for me now. _

_ I’m glad to hear you weren’t hurt in the attack. Those idiots would love to get their hands on you, so do your best to keep your head down in the future. _

_ I can’t believe they’re having the tournament again! What’s Dumbledore thinking? People used to die like crazy in those things. If I’m remembering right, all the champions died the last dozen times it was held, which was the whole reason they quit doing it. _

_ Also, as much as I love Hedwig, we’re going to have to start using other owls. She’s a bit too noticeable, and too many people know she’s yours. _

There was a long streak of ink after the word ‘noticeable’ and a few dark brown drops.

_ She bit me! Before I met her, I’d never have thought an owl could be so smart, but here we are. How’d you manage to find a bird that can read anyway? _

_ I’m trying to find some leads on where Wormtail went so I can get out of this mess, but it’s a bit hard when you’re as far away as I am. But don’t worry. I’ll figure it out soon enough. _

_ Take care, _

_ Padfoot _

Harry reread the letter before carefully folding it and sliding it into a safe inner pocket on his robes. He made a mental note to send Sirius a reply soon. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d put in the reply, but the idea of having someone to finally write to brought a small smile to his face.

Ron finished his meal and stood, with Harry and Hermione following suit. They joined the small crowd of other students filing into the already-packed entry hall. Shoulders and elbows bumped him as Harry slid through the gaggle of students blocking his view with Ron elbowing his way through amidst multiple complaints.

They broke through to the front to find Dean grinning from ear to ear. “Did you see it?” he asked, pointing to where the Goblet sat atop a waist-high pedestal.

“See what?” Harry asked.

“Fred and George! They tried using an aging potion to get past Dumbledore’s age line. It threw them back and they grew huge beards!”

Ron let out a snort of laughter from beside Harry.

“They went to the hospital wing to get Madam Pomfrey to remove them,” Neville continued, a laugh escaping him. “They kept changing the color of each other’s beards as they left.”

Harry laughed at the image of the twins with their bright red hair and lime green beards. It faded as the entry doors swung open to reveal Headmaster Karkaroff leading a straight-backed group of students behind him. They walked as one, their footfalls echoing through the hall as their heavy winter boots stomped against the stone floor. As Karkaroff reached the Goblet, he held a hand up and they stopped with one final stomp.

Karkaroff turned and stuck a hand into his blood-red robes. He produced a small handful of ripped parchment and held the first up to his eyes.

“Milanov.” A heavyset student with close-cropped jet black hair stepped forward, grabbed the offered parchment, and dropped it in the Goblet. The magical artifact accepted the offering with a small flare of blue flame.

Konev, Petrich, and Ribar all followed suit, their expressions stony. The Headmaster listed through the names of his entire retinue, finally ending with, “Krum.”

The seeker stepped forward and held his hand out, accepting the parchment placed in his palm. He squeezed his hand tight before tossing the parchment into the Goblet, the fire flaring for a moment longer than it had for the others. The Bulgarian school fell back into line without comment and marched from the hall, their steps echoing even as they stepped out into the cool October air.

The assembled students didn’t have to wait long until the next potential champion stepped forward, garnering cheers of approval from a large gaggle of Hufflepuffs standing nearby. Harry couldn’t help but notice most of the shouts were distinctly feminine. Cedric Diggory dropped his parchment inside with a determined grin and a quick nod. He stepped away quickly as another group shadowed the entry-way. The conversation in the hall became muted, punctuated by an occasional indistinct yell from near to the door.

Madame Maxime strode through the doorway, long fur robes sweeping across the floor behind her. Walking alongside, striding next rather quickly, was the silver-haired girl, her perfect features set in a mask of determination. The shouts drew nearer as she did, and Harry caught a flicker of a frown cross her lips. He watched her as she passed, the top of her head coming only to her Headmistress’s waist.

She dropped her parchment into the Goblet and stepped to the side, then placed her hands behind her back as she waited for the others to do the same. Harry looked over as Ron took a hesitant step forward, his mouth open to speak. Before either of them could do anything, Madam Maxime had the Beauxbatons students moving with a word, and he turned to watch.

He started when he saw the beautiful witch watching him, her indifferent mask replaced by a burning curiosity. He met her sky-blue eyes for only a moment before letting his slide to a point on her forehead. As though she hadn’t been looking his way at all, she turned her head back to the side, her long loose hair swinging with the motion.

Ron took a step forward as the students moved out of sight. “Did you see?” he asked, his voice tinged with wonder. “She looked at me.”

Hermione’s head swiveled as she shot Ron a withering glare from her spot on the other side of Neville, but Harry doubted Ron could see her and was certain he wouldn’t care. He let his gaze wander back towards the doors and frowned.

It wouldn’t be hard to believe the tale of the Boy-Who-Lived made it over the Channel, though…he wasn’t sure he noticed her gaze flit up to his scar.

Fred and George reappeared sporting both identical grins and knee-length purple beards. As Harry watched, George’s shifted to light pink, while Fred’s slid into a deep black. They spotted Harry and Ron and approached with a wave.

“Got a massive lecture from Pomfrey,” Fred said in answer to Harry’s unasked question.

George nodded. “She said we cast too much magic at the jinx when we changed the colors, and we overpowered the spell. Now we just have to wait for them to fall off.”

“It’s growing on me though,” Fred added thoughtfully.

They hung around the Goblet for a while longer, much to their delight when they saw Malfoy rebound off the age line after an attempt to stride through it. Crabbe and Goyle attempted the same, with similar results. When the sky had darkened and the Front Hall had grown chill with the setting sun, Dumbledore stepped into the hall and removed the Goblet from its pedestal.

“The entry period for the Triwizard Tournament is now closed. If everyone would kindly find their way into the Great Hall, a nice warm dinner is about to be served.”

He paused as he turned and found Fred and George leaning against the wall on either side of the doors to the Great Hall looking nonchalant. George buffed his fingernails on his beard just in time for it to turn a vibrant shade of blue.

Dumbledore’s eyes crinkled as he chuckled. 

“Five points to Gryffindor for giving me something new to strive toward.”


	4. Ceremonies and Meetings

**Chapter 4: Ceremonies and Meetings**

Excitable tension floated overhead through dinner, each table speculating on who was going to be champion. Fred and George, now beardless, were taking bets, with the current out-lier being Filch, followed closely by Harry. Dean had offered an apologetic shrug when he’d placed his bet, offering a simple, “With your luck…” by way of explanation. 

Harry shook his head, doing his best to deny the unease the idea engendered in him. He let his gaze wander up to the Head Table, where a not-so-subtle movement from Hagrid caught his eye. The half-giant was rummaging in a massive pocket in his coat. Finding what he was searching for, Harry watched as he dropped a small stack of coins into Professor Sprout's open hand.

“You have been most patient,” Dumbledore began. The desserts vanished from the tables and he raised a hand to the side where Filch set the Goblet on another conjured pedestal. “It is finally time to discover who will have the honor of representing our schools in the Triwizard Tournament!”

The moment he finished speaking, the Goblet’s flames shifted from blue to bright red. They climbed high and sparks began to issue from the center. With a burst of fire and spark, a parchment flew into the air, its edges smoldering.

Dumbledore snatched it out of the air, the room thick with silent anticipation.

“Representing Durmstrang will be Viktor Krum!” Thunderous applause met the pronouncement. "Mr. Krum, would you please make your way through that door.” He indicated the doorway behind the head table.

As the door clicked shut behind Krum, the Goblet shot forth a second parchment.

“The champion for Hogwarts is Cedric Diggory!”

An explosion of noise issued from the Hufflepuff table as they collectively rose to their feet and cheered, knocking their benches over in their haste. Even the Slytherins cheered for the friendly Hufflepuff, who waved appreciatively on his way to the meeting room.

The third name flew into the air a moment later.

“Fleur Delacour is our third and final champion, representing Beauxbatons!”

The cheers that followed Fleur’s name were fraught with yells for her attention. She walked through the gawking students, back straight, eyes forward. When the door shut behind her with a soft click, hushed conversation resumed. Dumbledore raised his hands for silence and opened his mouth to speak. Harry was certain he could hear the click of the Headmaster’s jaw as it snapped shut, a fourth smoldering parchment fluttering down into his waiting hand.

Dumbledore’s eyes flashed Harry’s direction before he spoke.

“Harry Potter.”

His voice wasn’t loud, or sharp, but his words reverberated through the silent hall all the same.

Harry’s mind whirled with incoherent thoughts as the eyes of the collective students turned to him. He felt his face burn and he sunk into his seat. Attention was dangerous.

He tried to will himself to vanish.

“To the champion’s room, Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore said, his bespectacled blue eyes stern.

Harry looked to his friends as panic rose in his throat.

“I didn’t-” he tried, the words dying against the silence from his friends.

Hermione simply nodded him towards the Head Table and the door waiting beyond. Ron, however, refused to meet his gaze, instead staring down at the table in front of him, frowning. 

He stood from his seat, each footstep thunderously loud over the blanket of whispers that covered the room. He passed Dumbledore without a word and stepped through into the champion’s room.

Inside the room, a fire blazed in a large hearth opposite the door. Krum leaned against the wall next to the entrance, while Fleur stood unreasonably close to the fireplace, warming her hands. Cedric stood to her left and turned to face Harry as he closed the door behind him. Fleur spun when she noticed Cedric turn, one perfect eyebrow arched in surprise.

“Did they need us outside for something?” she asked, her accent barely distorting her words.

“Er...” was all Harry managed.

Ludo Bagman swung open the door, saving Harry from further elaboration. The genial man was the only person excited by the unusual turn of events.

“Harry!” the man greeted him, clapping a large hand down on Harry’s shoulder, making him jump. He frowned and forced himself still before sliding out from under Bagman’s calloused hand unnoticed. “Meet your fourth Triwizard Champion!”

Cedric’s, “But you’re only a fourth-year,” rolled over Fleur’s stunned, “Pardon?”

Krum watched the exchange from where he leaned against the wall, his face shadowed. The firelight reflected off his dark eyes, tiny pinpoints of orange scrutiny.

Fleur took a step forward, one hand held out to gesture to Harry. 

“Surely there has been some mistake,” she snapped. “The dangers were made clear. Anyone underage and underskilled would perish if they attempted to participate-”

Her speech was interrupted by the arrival of Barty Crouch, Professor Moody, Professor McGonagall, and the heads of all three schools.

“Miss Delacour is correct,” Madam Maxime said, her deep voice thick with her accent in contrast to Fleur’s. “The tournament is indeed too dangerous for one as young as he.”

Karkaroff slid carefully past Moody to stand next to Krum. “The question is,” he said, his reedy black wand held at his side, “why does Hogwarts get two champions? It is unfair, even if he is too young!”

“I assure you that we had no intention of breaking the rules that have been in place for centuries,” Dumbledore replied. He turned his gaze to Harry, who felt suddenly small in the middle of the crowded room. “Did you put your name in the Goblet, Harry?”

“No, Sir.”

Moody clunked forward. “Potter is a fair enough wizard, but he’s not good enough to best one of Dumbledore’s spells.”

Professor McGonagall nodded in agreement, while Madam Maxime remained unconvinced.

“Perhaps he asked an older student to place his name inside,” she said, moving over to stand protectively at Fleur’s side, who hadn’t stopped glaring at the assembled teachers and the pair of Ministry workers.

“The enchantments on the cup forbids an individual from entering another’s name into the cup,” Crouch cut in, his voice clipped and businesslike. “All three of you were present when we examined the Goblet earlier this year. Its enchantments are intact.”

“Then he must have bypassed the age line,” Karkaroff spat. “Or perhaps someone allowed him through.”

“Even I couldn’t have bypassed that line if I wasn’t of age,” said Moody, his magical eye fixed unerringly on the tall sallow man. A sneer lifted Moody’s scarred cheek. “And you know precisely how powerful I can be. Don’t you, Igor?”

“Albus did no such thing,” Professor McGonagall said, her stern tone more worried than Harry had ever heard it, though it still managed to cut through the storm of wills brewing between Karkaroff and Moody. She nodded to Harry. “Surely he won’t have to compete.” 

“I am sorry, Minerva,” Dumbledore said. “If Harry’s name came out of the Goblet, the magic compels him to compete, or forfeit his magical abilities.”

Silence fell across the room, though he heard Fleur mumble something he couldn’t understand under her breath.

“I think,” Moody said after a moment, “that if Dumbledore were trying to gain an unfair advantage for Hogwarts, he’d have chosen a second champion who stood an actual chance of winning.”

Madam Maxime and Karkaroff considered, then finally nodded.

“And if Potter here did manage to pass an age line set by the most powerful wizard alive today, and managed to bewitch a centuries-old artifact, then I’d say he deserves to be the fourth champion.”

Dumbledore nodded graciously at the praise and shifted his gaze between the two other heads of their schools. “Are you satisfied that we have not skewed the champion results in our favor?”

“I suppose so,” Karkaroff said.

“It would be impossible for one so young to be a challenger to the true champions,” Madam Maxime said, placing a hand on Fleur’s shoulder to quell the growing outrage that built to dangerous levels in the French champion.

“Then that settles it,” Dumbledore said. “He will be allowed to compete in an effort to retain his magic. Barty, would you, please, give the instructions?”

Harry stared up at Crouch while he gave his explanation, the words arriving at his ears as little more than a fuzzy drone.

Certain death…or his magic? He was pretty much dead either way.

The droning stopped when the other occupants had left the room, leaving Harry alone with Professors Moody, McGonagall, and Dumbledore. The Headmaster sighed once the door clicked shut behind Ludo Bagman and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Please indulge me, Harry,” he said. “Now that it’s just us, did you put your name in the Goblet?”

“No, Sir!” Harry answered with a touch more vehemence than he had meant to.

“Then it would appear that we have a rather glaring issue.”

“Someone else did,” Moody growled.

“But why would someone want him forced into the tournament?” asked Professor McGonagall.

“That is something we must discuss and speculate upon,” Dumbledore said. “But not right this moment. I expect everyone has made their way back to their dormitories, and it is time you do so as well, Harry. I know it will be difficult, but try to get some rest tonight.”

He wanted to protest, to say that he deserved to know who would go to such lengths to push him into the tournament. But the dismissal was clear. After a quick goodnight, he slid out the door.

The walk back to Gryffindor Tower was a slow affair. Years at the center of school-wide gossip had taught him what awaited him in the Gryffindor common room. The genesis of the newest rumor mill would be standing by the fireplace, or sitting in the chairs. They would be chatting but would fall silent for the barest of moments when he stepped through the portrait. Then the questions would start, peppered with praise and accusations alike.

A crinkling in his pocket as he stepped onto one of the moving stairways pulled him from his predictions, and a small smile broke through his gloom. As bad as things were about to get, at least he still had Sirius. After a fashion, anyway. Ron and Hermione too.

Despite their unbelievable years at Hogwarts, the three of them had an impressive track-record for success. With Sirius’s help as well, even from another country, maybe the Tournament wouldn’t be quite so bad as he feared. He picked up the pace, eager to write his reply to his godfather.

As expected, the common room was filled with nearly the entirety of Gryffindor’s members. A quick scan of faces found the two most familiar ones missing. He ignored the knot of anxiety that bloomed from their absence.

Harry did his best to dodge the questions and congratulations that battered him as he passed through on his way up to the dorms. Calls for the truth of how he stuck his name in were pervasive, and far more grating and numerous than the friendly claps on the back he received as he pushed through. He ascended the stairs and closed the dorm-room door, shutting out the cracks and bangs of celebratory fireworks that Fred and George had charmed to be slightly less dangerous.

He let out a shaky sigh. No matter how much he thought he was used to such attention, it never failed to rattle him each time he was in the thick of it.

Ron was waiting for him when he turned from the door, a fragile half-hearted smile plastered on his freckled face. “You’re back,” he said, the attempted casualness in his voice grating to Harry’s frayed nerves. Ron had never been one to hide his feelings, and the new taciturn version put him on edge.

“Yeah,” Harry replied when no further comment came forward.

“Did they tell you what the First Task will be?” Genuine curiosity mingled with Ron’s eerie, constructed facade.

Harry cast his mind back to the droning words of Barty Crouch. “We were told that it’s a test to see how well we think on our feet.” The desire to write to Sirius grew painfully inside him. He needed to get his whirling thoughts organized before putting the necessary ones down to paper.

“So they’re letting you compete?”

“If I don’t, I’ll lose my magic.” He could feel his hackles rise at the clear turn in the conversation.

“Was Dumbledore mad that you put your name in?”

Had Hermione been hiding from him because she thought he put his name in too?

“I didn’t put my name in,” he forced out: a phrase he must have uttered a dozen times while pushing through his fellow Gryffindors downstairs.

“You can tell me,” Ron insisted, finally dropping his false nonchalance. “I’d have liked to have had the chance at the glory and prize money too, though. But I’m not mad.”

Harry looked up at his friend to find eyes that were distinctly at odds with his words. He was well acquainted with simmering anger. He set his jaw, anger of his own sparking to life in his chest. 

Ron had a life Harry dreamed of, with a family who loved him and a life in which he had grown up in the magical world. He had so many places to belong.

_ He _ was wanted. 

Not for an accident as a baby, but for him. And he was still unhappy? Wanted to throw all that away for prize money and a title?

“Somebody put my name in the goblet,” he said, clamping down on his volatile thoughts.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Ron said, doing his best to sound conspiratorial, but only sounding angry. “You should have given me a chance to enter too, not kept it to yourself. We’re best mates, aren’t we?”

“I thought we were,” he shot back in a furious burst of self-pity. It seemed as though he would be dying in the tournament, friendless. “I didn’t put my name in. I don’t care if you don’t believe me.”

Ron’s blue eyes flashed with anger and his face burned bright red. For the first time, Harry noticed just how much bigger Ron was than him. Ron’s lanky form grew indistinct, the hazy form of a laughing Dudley taking his place. He flinched as Ron stomped by before slamming the dorm door behind him.

Harry blinked back angry tears while scanning the room around him. Thankfully nobody else was in the dorm. He sunk down onto his bed once he found that he was alone and did his best to calm down. Years of practice and a few deep breaths did the trick, and he managed to put away the raging feelings.

He scooted to the edge of his bed and rummaged through his trunk, searching for some spare parchment and a quill. It’d be good to focus on something other than Ron. Surely Sirius would believe him.

_ Padfoot, _

_ No sense in beating around the bush. I was picked to be the fourth champion in the Triwizard Tournament. I didn’t put my name in, and nobody seems to know how it happened. _

_ Professor Moody and Professor Dumbledore didn’t tell me much besides that I have no choice but to compete. I guess the First Task is in late November, but they didn’t tell us what it was. _

_ Nobody believes that I didn’t put my name in, not even Ron. _

_ Let me know if you find anything out about Wormtail. It’d be nice if you were able to be here. _

_ -Harry _

~~XxX~~

The halls of Hogwarts near curfew sat empty and cold. Dying leaves rustled on the courtyard trees as a chill October wind blew. He counted himself lucky that he’d only run into one pair of students who were far more interested in each other than they were in him and he took care to avoid notice. He climbed the stairs to the tower where the owls roosted, being sure to step hard and noticeably. More than once he had been too lost in his thoughts to remember to do so, and come across a couple mid-entanglement.

To his relief, nobody else occupied the Owlery, leaving him alone to select from the handful of owls that remained roosted so deep into the evening. He grimaced when he found Hedwig sitting on one of the lower spots, preening her wing feathers. She noticed his attention, stopped, and peered at the letter clutched in his hand.

“I’m sorry, girl,” he said, reaching out to placate her with scratches on her head. “I have to use a different owl.” Her head spun and she nipped at his finger, before turning back to look at the letter. “You’re just too pretty,” he tried, gently stroking the feathers on her chest. “People might recognize you, and then he’d get caught.”

She shot him a baleful glare before hopping away from him to the end of the makeshift branch.

“That is an unusually smart bird you have,” said an accented feminine voice from behind him. He whirled in surprise, his mind scrambling to remember if he had mentioned Sirius by name. His panic stuttered to a halt in front of the serious, sky-blue eyes of Fleur Delacour.

“Uh…yeah, she is,” he managed once he had gathered himself.

“What is her name?” She bent over to peer around him at Hedwig, her long silvery-blond hair falling to the side with the motion.

“Hedwig.”

“She is beautiful.” She stood upright and smiled at him, though it faded after a moment and her brows drew together. “After we left the room earlier, did they discover who placed your name in the Goblet?”

“Er…what?”

“I assumed that is why they kept you behind. After the announcement of the champions?”

“Yeah…” he said slowly. “Or rather, no, they didn’t.”

She frowned at his reply, the ghost of her earlier outrage returning to her features.

She opened her mouth, but Harry found himself cutting in.

“You believe me?” he asked.

“Of course,” she answered, tilting her head to the side, confused. “Many people tried to pass the age line. Not one succeeded. If they had, they would have bragged about their accomplishment, not deny it.”

Warmth sparked and swelled inside of him. At least someone believed him, even if she was a stranger from another country.

“But in the room,” he said. “You seemed so angry at me.”

She blinked at him in surprise.

“I was not angry with you. I was angry with the Ministry officials who were not the least bit concerned that you have been roped against your will into a life or death situation. I was angry with the heads of our schools who squabbled over fairness for the other champions.”

She took a deep breath before continuing, calmer.

“My father was placed at your Ministry as both Ambassador to the French Ministry, but also for oversight from the ICW. This is one of many irregularities that he will have to investigate.” She withdrew a letter from one of the pockets in the light blue robes. “That is why I am here. I wrote to him about what happened…and that I have been selected champion.”

She nodded down to the letter in his hand.

“I assume you are doing the same?”

“Yeah.”

“Why not wait until morning?”

He frowned. “You’re here late too.” 

He couldn’t exactly tell her he was sending a letter to Britain’s most wanted man.

“It is…easier for me to wander at night.” She hesitated, catching his gaze with hers. “I expect you would understand the desire for solitude from the stares of strangers, no?”

He could only nod, his hand reaching unconsciously to touch the familiar edges of his scar. When he realized what he was doing he let his hand drop. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything.

A silence stretched between them that he was unsure how to break. For her small smile and open posture, Fleur seemed content to stand quietly, surrounded by owls and straw, staring at him with her head cocked oddly to the side.

She spoke finally, breaking the odd silence. “Though I have enjoyed our conversation, I must send my letter and return to my carriage. I will be missed if I am absent for too long. Especially now that I am champion,” she said with no small measure of pride.

It was his turn to blink in surprise. He didn’t feel as though he had said enough to warrant a conversation, but he didn’t argue.

“Me too,” he said. “Er…I liked talking with you. Not the champion thing.”

“Surely you will be missed as well if you are gone too late, unorthodox champion or not.”

“I don’t like to spend time in our crowded dorm room, so I tend to take walks in the evening.” A partial truth.

“Something else we have in common.” Her bright blue gaze swept across the remaining owls. “Could you tell me which are free to use? I cannot tell which belong to the school, and which are owned by students.”

“It’s sort of a trial-and-error thing,” he said, walking up to a large brown barn-owl. “If they offer you their leg, you’re good to go.”

“That seems a little…” she paused a moment, frowning in thought. “Désorganisé. Disorganized.”

“You aren’t wrong. You can use Hedwig if you’d like. She’ll like to take a letter since she can’t take mine. She might even stop being mad at me by the time she gets back...”

“Thank you,” Fleur said, stepping over to where Hedwig still sat perched with her back to them. “Do you think she will let me?”

Before he could reply, Hedwig had turned and offered Fleur her leg. The snowy owl stood still as Fleur tied her letter tight, and flew out the window as soon as she had finished. Harry tied his similarly to the brown owl and watched as it flew away, noticeably slower than his familiar. It would be a long time before he got a reply from Sirius.

“Thank you for offering your owl,” Fleur said, turning to him. “And thank you for talking with me.” She bid him goodnight with a smile and left him alone in an owlery that felt far colder and lonelier than it had before.

~~XxX~~

Their first event as Champions came only days after his impromptu meeting with Fleur. Colin Creevy rescued him from a dreadful Potions lesson, sent to gather him for the Weighing of the Wands ceremony. Whatever that was. He waved a quick goodbye to Hermione, who had thankfully not agreed with Ron in her assessment of Harry’s entry to the tournament, and left the dungeons.

The purpose of the strange-named event was not made any clearer when he stepped through the door to the unused classroom, ushered through by a grinning Ludo Bagman, who herded him past where Krum and Karkaroff stood apart from the others. Both of whom took refuge in a corner, far from the noise that surrounded Fleur.

He had been hoping to see her, to get the opportunity to say something more substantial than to talk about owls, but a middle-aged woman was badgering Fleur with questions, a floating quill and parchment scratching away next to her head. Her blond hair was done up in tight curls mounted atop her head, and though not a hair appeared out of place, nor did a single streak of gray mar her golden curls, it was nothing more than a dull lifeless mound next to Fleur’s hair, which shone with the golden light of the sun streaking through the single window on the far wall.

Harry moved to stand next to Cedric, who stood alone by the window. The Hufflepuff offered him a friendly hello before his gaze slid back over to where Fleur stood, her back straight and her chin high.

“Non,” she said, her eyes narrowing at whatever the woman had said. “That is not something I will disclose. Especially to one such as yourself.”

“No need for any of that,” the woman said, her voice a cheap silken cloth draped over a thorn bush. “I’m sure you’d prefer to represent your school in a more positive, cooperative light.”

“I am sure I will represent my school however I choose,” Fleur answered, her voice hard. She frowned down at the woman, her countenance stony. “I am unsure if this is the norm in England, but in France, interviews are far less-”

“She is correct,” Madam Maxime cut in, stepping forward from where she had been unsuccessfully trying to stay out of the way. “Your questions are unprofessional, and I thank you to refrain from questioning my champion any further.”

The woman glared up at the large Headmistress, the effect spoiled by the extreme angle of her head. She clicked over to a seat near the door, her high-heels reverberating through the small stone room.

Fleur’s shoulders relaxed, and she shot Harry a quick smile through the crumbling facade she had produced for the reporter. For the first time, he wished he was able to hide behind the Boy-Who-Lived as effectively. He saw the reporter staring at him, one eyebrow raised behind ridiculous glasses, then looked away, opting instead to look out the window over the grounds.

Before she had a chance to rise, the door swung open and Dumbledore strode through, followed by Barty Crouch and Ollivander.

“I apologize for our delay,” Dumbledore said, motioning for Ollivander to move to the center of the room. “Let us begin the Weighing of the Wands.

“Mr. Garrick Ollivander will be our Wandmaster for today. He is Britain’s foremost wandmaker, of unparalleled skill and knowledge, preeminent throughout his fellow colleagues.”

Mr. Ollivander bowed deeply, his stringy white hair bouncing with the movement.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” the wandmaker said, his wispy, absent voice stronger than Harry remembered. “Let us not wait any longer. Miss Delacour, if you please?” He held a hand out to her and she nodded, placing a wand of a dark, red wood in his hand. The wand twirled through knobby fingers with a speed belying the wandmakers considerable age.

He stopped and held it between both hands, rolling it back and forth.

“Very well put together,” he said, smiling. “One of Emilienne’s, if I’m not mistaken?”

“It is,” Fleur confirmed, a touch of surprise in her voice.

“She does some of the most elegant work of our generation,” he said, holding it close to his face for closer inspection. “Rosewood, with a Veela hair core…”

“My grandmother’s.”

“Yes. I can see it is well suited to you… _ Orchideus _ !”

With a wave of his arm, a multitude of pure white irises flew from the tip of her wand and fluttered to the ground. Harry caught the quick roll of her eyes before Fleur accepted her wand with a small smile for the old man.

“Mr. Krum,” Ollivander called as Fleur stepped back into place. The lanky Bulgarian offered his wand silently. “Ah. One of Gregorovitch’s, correct?”

Krum nodded.

“Finely made, as is to be expected. Heartstring of a dragon and made of Hornbeam. Avis!”

On command, a small bird burst into existence and soared down into the scattered flower petals.

“A very obedient wand,” Ollivander said, returning it to its owner, “and masterfully built.”

“Twelve and a quarter, ash, unicorn tail,” Ollivander rattled off as he inspected the wand, though he didn’t twirl Cedric’s as he had done for Fleur and Krum. After producing silver smoke from the wand tip, he offered it back to Cedric. “I remember making this one, as I do selling it to you seven years ago. It is in fine condition. Well done, Mr. Diggory.

“Now, for Mr. Potter.” He accepted Harry’s wand, his fingers wrapping carefully around the base, as though it might break with too much pressure. “I remember this one…” The wand turned between his fingers, each spin an opportunity to reveal its twin. “Holly and phoenix feather, and well maintained.”

With a wave and a word, a fountain of red wine flowed from the end of Harry’s wand. Ollivander handed the wand back, stood up straight, and addressed the room.

“I pronounce that the wands are all in good order, and no alterations have been placed on them. I deem all four fit to compete.”

Ludo Bagman strode forward as Ollivander stepped aside, moving to stand next to Dumbledore. “Now that that’s taken care of, let’s get some photos of our champions!”

They spent the better part of an hour being moved around by the reporter and her photographer, who lingered near to Fleur no matter where she was placed. His partner, on the other hand, was determined to single Harry out for a one-on-one interview. After two dozen pictures had been taken and Harry was blinking away spots from the photographer’s flash, the woman finally managed to pull him away.

“So, Harry. I hope it’s okay to call you Harry. It lends a much more personal tone to the article. You wouldn’t want to seem unapproachable to all your adoring fans.”

“My…fans?”

“Oh yes. A fourth champion in the Triwizard Tournament, and it’s the Boy-Who-Lived to boot. So tell me, Harry, how did you do it?”

“I think that is quite enough, Ms. Skeeter.” Dumbledore had extricated himself from a conversation with Crouch and strode over to stand next to Harry. “Mr. Potter is a minor, and as such, you may not interview him without a guardian present. While he is at school, that is me or Professor McGonagall. The other three champions are bound by no such rules. Perhaps you will find greener pastures with them.”

Her jaw worked beneath a decidedly false smile but in the end, she spun and walked over to where Cedric stood by himself to begin what sounded to be an uncomfortable interview.

Dumbledore said quick goodbyes and led Harry from the room. They walked down the hall in silence, neither speaking until they had turned a corner that would lead to the Great Hall.

“I would advise you to keep your distance from Rita Skeeter,” Dumbledore said, breaking the silence that had surrounded them. The halls were quiet between classes, the empty stone corridors chill with the early November air. “She has an unusual knack for digging up information you would rather stay hidden, and filling in any missing details with her own.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“If she does attempt to approach you again, please refer her to either Professor McGonagall or me.”

“Yes, Sir.”

They took another turn, moving away from the Great Hall and instead towards the Gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster’s office.

“So you have met with the Beauxbatons champion,” said Dumbledore, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in a smile.

Harry stumbled in surprise. He hadn’t even told Hermione that he’d met Fleur in the owlery. “Er…yes, Sir. I did.”

Dumbledore let out a small chuckle. “I am gratified to see you doing as I have asked and forming bonds with your peers from the other schools. It is not unheard of for champions of the Triwizard Tournament to form lifelong friendships. The other three students in that room are some of the precious few that will share that title with you, regardless of who becomes Triwizard Champion.”

“It was only one conversation,” Harry said.

“Ah, but all great friendships must begin with a first meeting. Do not discount a single conversation as unimportant, Harry.”

“I won’t, sir.”

“That is all I ask.” Dumbledore stopped, nodding to the gargoyle standing to his right. “Pumpkin pastie.” The stone figure rose from its seat and took two heavy steps to the side. “Thank you for seeing me back to my office, Harry. You had better get to the Great Hall. You should be just in time for lunch.”

~~XxX~~

Harry spent the rest of the day wondering at Dumbledore’s methods for finding out that he and Fleur had met in the Owlery, eventually giving it up as a bad job. He instead answered Hermione’s burning questions about the Weighing of the Wands, and what exactly Ollivander had been looking for.

She had been quite dissatisfied with his oft-repeated “I don’t know.”

In the end, he decided it best to tell Hermione of his meet up with Fleur, despite his odd desire to keep it a secret for himself. As he had predicted, she had been unable to refrain from commenting.

“So, when did you have the chance to meet up with her?” she said, feigning disinterest.

Poorly.

“After my name came out of the goblet.” He glanced around the common room, spotting only a pair of sixth years studying at one of the tables in the corner. He lowered his voice just in case. “I was taking a letter to Sirius. She came to mail a letter to her dad at the Ministry, and we talked a bit. Nothing special.”

“That must have been her dad sitting with her at the world cup,” Hermione said. “Fudge said he was the French Ambassador.”

Harry frowned, recalling only a vague memory of a brown-haired man in green robes standing next to her as they entered the top box.

He goggled at her. “How on Earth do you remember things like that?”

“Not all of us had our eyes glued to pretty older witches.”

Harry felt his face flush and he steered the conversation into safer territory.


	5. The First Task

**Chapter 5: The First Task**

November waned, the onset of colder weather and shorter days bringing with it the foreboding shadow of the first task. Harry’s dread fueled the passage of time, each day slipping by faster and faster as the twenty-fourth drew near. Days spent in busywork with Hermione, learning each and every spell she could get her hands on, and nights spent deep in troubled dreams left little room for any light in his life. 

While Hermione’s enthusiasm on his behalf was welcomed, without the distractable hand of Ron to pull them out of study-mode from time to time, breaks were few and far between. He had been practicing the banishing charm, which they had covered the week before, when Hedwig landed in the courtyard they were practicing in. Her gentle landing on a nearby tree disturbed the few remaining leaves, which tumbled to the ground, pushed by a soft frigid breeze.

“W-what is it, girl?” he asked, his teeth chattering against the icy wind that stabbed at his exposed ears.

He made a note to bring a few more of Dudley’s old threadbare sweaters next year to wear hidden beneath his Weasley jumper. That was, if the Dursleys weren’t so angry he had vanished that they didn’t just outright ban him from ever leaving the house again. He pushed the intrusive thought away, a practiced motion that became easier the longer he was at Hogwarts.

He stepped up to the tree, holding an arm out for Hedwig. Then, untied the letter with his free hand and sent her off with a quick scratch on the head. Inside the letter was a familiar, barely legible script.

_Harry,_

_Got something I want to show you. Not a big deal, but I thought you might be interested. Meet me at my house after dinner. It’s getting cold, so be sure to bring your cloak._

_-Hagrid_

Harry frowned down at the letter, jumping in surprise when Hermione brushed against him to read over his shoulder.

“I wonder what he wants…” she said, pulling back as she finished reading. “You should really be spending your time after dinner practicing, you know.”

“I know, Hermione.” He tried not to sound too exasperated. Her offended huff told him he hadn’t been successful. “I’ll be quick. Besides, I’ve just about got this one in the bag.”

“Well, yes,” she admitted, pulling a sheet from her pocket that had become the bane of his existence as of late. “But you’ve only got a few days left, and we’ve still got to work on the banishing hex and the reductor curse if we can get to it in time. It’s supposed to be rather difficult, though.”

“I’ll practice tonight,” he said, stuffing his wand in his pocket and moving towards one of the stone arches that led back into the castle. “I promise.” Sure, dinner was still an hour away but he could pick up his invisibility cloak, and Headmistress Hermione didn’t allow for enough trips to the loo.

~~XxX~~

His wonderings throughout dinner, and Hagrid’s cagey comments as he led Harry on a strange path through the Forbidden Forest, did little to dispel Harry’s curiosity. A roar, muffled only barely by the thick foliage, rattled Harry’s bones as they came across a bright clearing.

“Well, Harry,” Hagrid said as they broke the treeline. They were just in time to see a dragon stunned into unconsciousness by a half-dozen wizards and witches. “Hope this helps…”

“Dragons?”

“Couple o' beauties, aren’t they?”

“Dragons, Hagrid?”

“Reminds me of Norb-”

“Hagrid!” Harry hissed, finally drawing the large man from his wide-eyed appreciation. “How am I supposed to deal with a dragon?” 

A furious roar covered his question, the entire camp of frantic people moving in to subdue a black-spined dragon that retaliated against their spellfire with brilliant gouts of fearsome yellow and red flames.

“We should get goin’,” Hagrid said, patting the empty air on the side opposite where Harry was standing.

Wooden legs carried Harry back through the forest. They begged him with each step to just stop walking, to join the woodlands around him. Maybe he could still live in a magical forest, even if he didn’t have his magic anymore.

Would the Centaurs take him? Did they know there were dragons in their forest?

He bumped into Hagrid’s wide back and blinked up in confusion.

When had they left the forest?

“I’ve, er…got to go,” Hagrid said, tugging the front of his dingy, brown coat straight. “You’ll figure this one out. I know you will. They wouldn’t make you fight em head on…I’m sure they wouldn’t. Too dangerous.”

Another tall form stepped around the front of Hagrid’s hut, the top of her head nearly touching the thatch roof overhang. Madam Maxime motioned Hagrid forward with an elegant wave of her hand, her size belying the smooth, commanding movement.

Harry walked alone up to the castle, not removing his cloak until he was in bed.

At least his anxious nightmares could finally take form.

~~XxX~~

The final days before the First Task passed unreasonably fast. Despite his dread and silent protestations, time sprinted forward, dragging him along to his inevitable demise.

Hermione had done her best, pushing him through to the reductor curse, which he had been unable to master in the limited time left to them. Though she wasn’t the one that was going to face a dragon, Hermione sat next to him at breakfast the day of the task, looking precisely as haggard as he felt. Dark bags sat below red eyes that focused on a piece of parchment sitting in front of her, her breakfast pushed to the side.

“I can’t think of anything else,” she said, the admission of defeat part sigh, part sob. “You’re the most mobile on your broom, and that’s your only chance to keep from being…from…” She turned to him, panic pressing her lips into a thin trembling line.

“Champions!” Professor McGonagall called. “Follow me, please.”

Harry rose from his seat, Cedric, Fleur, and Krum following suit from their respective places. They walked the grounds in silence, each step amplifying Harry’s thundering heartbeat in his ears. His head of house led them to a tent that had been set up outside of a newly constructed wooden stadium. She held open the flap, ushering the champions through. A hand on his shoulder held him back and he turned to look up at McGonagall.

“Do your best, Mr. Potter,” she said. “There are precautions in place should things go poorly but I hope they will not be needed.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he answered automatically, though it sounded more like a croak than actual words.

Inside the tent, Cedric, Fleur, and Krum stood next to unused chairs that sat in a semi-circle in the middle. The air was warm, fogging his glasses just moments after he stepped inside. Muscle memory pulled them from his face and he wiped the lenses on the front of his robes.

“Now that everyone is here,” said a boisterous voice that pulled Harry’s gaze to the blurry form of Ludo Bagman. “We can begin!”

Harry set his glasses back on his nose in time to see Bagman produce a small black pouch from inside his robe. “In the First Task…” he paused, searching the room for expectant gazes. “You will be facing off against a dragon!” He waited, frowning when his declaration fell upon an impassive audience.

Harry’s gaze shifted between Fleur and Krum, both wearing masks of stone-faced focus. Clearly word about the dragons had gotten around.

“Well…anyway. You don’t have to defeat a dragon, oh no.” Bagman’s voice regained its theatricality as he spoke, growing as he pushed further from his disappointing reveal. “You must each retrieve a golden egg from the dragon’s nest!

“If and when you retrieve this egg,” he continued, “leave the arena through the exit that will be to your right. You will gain points for effectiveness, creativity, and skill. You will lose points for injuries to yourself or the destruction of any eggs.”

The bag dangled from his outstretched hand. “Who wants to choose their dragon first?”

Fleur stepped forward and stuck her hand in the bag. She retrieved the figure of a small green dragon that paced to and fro on her palm, stretching its tiny wings.

“The Welsh Green!” Bagman held the bag out to Krum, who pulled a Chinese Fireball, and Cedric, who picked the small Swedish Short-Snout. He turned to Harry last, pity coloring his gaze. “Sorry, Harry,” he said, tipping the final spiky dragon into Harry’s shaking hand. “Rules are rules though. It’s got to be random. They say Horntails aren’t as nasty as the rumors think they are…”

The two-dozen stunners Harry had seen finally down the beast told him otherwise.

“You four stay put. Barty and I have to announce the start, then you’ll come out as you hear your name called.”

He slipped out through the flap opposite where they had come in and Harry dropped into one of the wooden chairs. Fleur sat as well, while Cedric gripped the back of the chair in front of him, his knuckles white with the strain.

“I’m not sure if I should thank you, Harry,” Cedric said with a weak laugh. “I might have gotten better sleep last night if you hadn’t told me.”

Fleur’s faraway gaze focused on Harry but a voice boomed through the tent before she could speak.

“Viktor Krum will be our first challenger!”

The Bulgarian straightened and strode out of the tent, his Hornbeam wand held in his left hand.

“Do you have plans?” Cedric asked once the cheering outside died down.

_“Oui.”_

“Sort of,” Harry said, though he grew increasingly concerned about Hermione’s plan to fly a wooden broom around a fire-breathing dragon by the second.

Cedric gave a short humorless laugh. “Me too. I owe you one for telling me. I’d probably get burnt to a crisp otherwise.”

Another cheer arose from the crowd, loud enough to rattle the metal poles supporting the fabric of the tent. Ludo Bagman’s voice boomed once again, this time calling Cedric to face his Short-Snout.

“Good luck,” Cedric said, plastering a confident grin on his face.

“You too,” Harry and Fleur chorused before he vanished out into the arena.

“You told him of the dragons?” she asked, her faraway gaze replaced by her look of curiosity, shadowed by the tournament happening around them.

“Yeah. You found out too?”

She nodded. “A certain amount of…impropriety is to be expected from the tournament’s champions and their sponsors. It is as much a traditional part of the tournament as the Goblet of Fire.”

“Nobody told me that,” he groused before a roar from the dragon outside made him jump. Too late he realized he must have sounded petulant.

Instead of mocking him for being childish, she grew angry. He flinched at the sudden fire behind her eyes.

“It is unfair that you are being forced into this tournament against your will,” she said, her fierce gaze flashing blue fury. “It is inexcusable that it is being made more difficult for you!”

He blinked, expecting a ‘grow up’, not more outrage on his behalf.

Before he could express his gratitude, another cheer cut across their conversation, drowning out anything he might have said.

“Well done!” Bagman’s voice boomed across the arena once again. “Fast and effective. I expect we will see high marks for that one!”

Fleur’s name was called next. She stood and offered him a tight smile before departing, leaving him alone in the large tent. Determined not to get caught up in the worry that built in his chest, he settled on repeating, “Accio Firebolt,” over and over. Maybe repetition could force the words out through the fear of standing face to face with his dragon.

He muttered the spell through clenched teeth as Fleur’s dragon roared its defiance outside the tent while the spectator’s cheers filled the air. Gradually, as his practice continued, the noise outside faded until all he could hear was his own panicked whisper.

A lethargic cheer told him Fleur had been successful. He had no time to wonder at the reaction as his name soon followed in Bagman’s amplified voice.

With effort, he forced his legs to carry him from the tent, unresponsive to the fear-filled shudders rolling through his body. Midday sunlight made him squint as he stepped outside, letting the flap fall behind him. The mix of cheers and jeers faded into the background of his hearing, the only sound that of the dragon awaiting him.

It rested in the rocky arena below him, a patchy expanse of dirt and stone cut into the hills outside Hogwarts. Spikes jutted from its scales, running the length of its sinuous back down to more prominent extrusions on its tail. Black wings folded against its back as it surveyed the crowd with narrowed yellow eyes.

“Are you ready, Harry?” Bagman asked, his voice drifting through the haze of fear settling in Harry’s senses. Belatedly, he realized he had been asked the question more than once.

He could only nod his lie.

His traitorous body took a step forward. And another.

Each one brought a new jolt of fear up through his feet and deep into his heart. It thundered in his chest, a sound so loud in his ears that the dragon must have heard him coming, even if it didn’t yet see him.

A narrow stairway led him into the enclosure that housed the beast, depositing him behind a rock that was twice as tall as him, and three times as wide. On the other side, the horntail waited, its probing gaze having followed Harry down the steps.

His mouth worked and his fingers flexed, neither finding purchase on what he needed. What some dim, still-conscious part of his brain knew he needed.

His holly wand was slick in his pocket.

No, he realized, wiping his hand on his already dusty robe, his hands were wet with fear. He swallowed with a dry throat.

“A-Accio Firebolt,” he tried, pulling his wand from his pocket.

A burst of flame to his right made him recoil and almost drop his wand. He fell to the ground, his knee smashing against a rock that was partially buried in the dirt.

He scrambled across the ground, small stones scraping at his palms and legs. Panic pushed the pain from him, allowing him to duck behind another, larger rock.

He gripped his wand, the dirt on his hand giving him better purchase on the slick wood.

His jaw clenched, he raised his wand into the air. The basilisk had been just as terrifying, and he had managed that with enough luck.

Maybe he still had some left.

“Accio Firebolt!” he called again, a burst of surprise following his words. He hadn’t expected anything at all to come out.

A roar shook the ground, and the rock behind him shuddered with a blow from the dragon. Another roar of frustration reverberated through Harry’s bones and he pushed his back harder against the stone. Another gout of fire soared over the top of his shelter, the heat of it forcing him to shield his face.

Moving on impulse, he rolled to the side and flung a stunning spell blindly around the rock at the beast. His Firebolt was fast, but he didn’t want to test to see if it could make it through the flames to get to him without being incinerated. He panted a sigh of relief when the dragon took to the bait.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with a dirty sleeve and scanned the sky. He raised his arm, preparing another attempt at the spell. Before the words could pass his lips, a brown streak soared into view and landed hard in front of him.

Another heavy crash shifted the bolder he leaned against, and he rushed to pick up his broom. He swung his leg over, and with a kick, soared into the air.

His adrenaline-fueled push off sent him far higher than he had intended, but it allowed him to finally take stock of his predicament. The wind cooled his sweat-slicked hair as he stared down at the arena. The dragon paced around the area where he had to assume the eggs lay. 

A stiff breeze tried to push him off course and he corrected with his foot, pushing lightly on the back of the broom. He breathed deeply the chill November air, hoping the distance might help clear the fear from his vision.

The dragon flexed its wings, its long neck arching to look up to where Harry hovered. A gout of fire issued from its nostrils as it chose to remain on the ground.

A warning.

He leaned forward, pitching his broom into a wide spiral back down towards the arena. No matter how he looked, there wasn’t even a glint of gold around the dragon’s feet. It stood over its nest, shielding its eggs from the one who dared get too close.

Harry stopped his descent opposite the dragon, far enough away that he would have time to react if it dove for him.

He hoped.

Smoke curled from the corners of the Horntail’s mouth; a toothy maw opened wide. It snapped it shut, reaching towards him with the motion. Its wings flexed open again, and it raised onto its hind legs, towering over the arena, its head at the same level at which Harry hovered.

Finally, beneath its wide-set legs, Harry spied gold.

Before his mind or mouth could scream a halt, he dove to the ground and into his seeker training.

A tap of the foot, a twist of the hand.

He rolled as he sped around the boulder he hid behind, its top partially crushed by the powerful swipe of the dragon’s tail. He leaned forward, his eyes watering against the wind rushing past his face.

Lean to the left, barest of brakes to avoid overtilt. Pick up speed.

The dragon was dropping back to all fours, a breath of fire following too slowly behind him, heating the stones to red hot luminescence as it moved. The radiant heat stung his neck and back, even from such a distance. Dust and dirt trailed behind him as he banked around the dragon’s left foreleg, using his foot against the ground to complete the hairpin turn.

He could see it beneath the dragon’s underside, still gleaming in the shadow. The golden egg sat nestled in the middle of four others.

He loosened his grip with his knees and tilted to the side until he was parallel with the ground.

The air vibrated with a furious roar. The bass rumble in the dragon’s chest thrumming in his ears.

He let his left hand go and pulled hard on his right, the momentum of the sharp arc threatening to spin him out of control.

More speed.

The force of it pushed him painfully against the handle. The sudden acceleration made his hand bounce against the dirt just a hand’s-breadth from the nest. A bloody, dusty hand scooped up the egg and curled it up against his chest. His legs and right hand screamed in protest at his unnatural angle but he ignored them, pushing the broom even faster.

He shifted his grip on the handle and pushed away from him, opening his arc to avoid the dragon’s back right leg.

Another roar of fury and the tail smashed the ground behind him. Dust filled the air, clinging to his skin and sweat-streaked glasses. With a heave, he pulled himself upright and tilted himself up and away from the ground.

He needed to go faster. Almost finished.

Pushing the broom for all it had with the not-inconsequential extra weight of the golden egg, he leaned forward until his torso pressed against the wood. He pulled it in a final arc, pointing the nose to the exit. Through the dust coating his glasses, the stone arch of the finish line called him.

The dragon spun on his left, following Harry’s deft movements too slowly. But it was almost upon him.

He pressed his chin to the wood, opening the Firebolt up for every last bit of speed it could offer him.

There was the rush of the wind in his ears.

A roar of boiling fire.

The flames were a wall, rising to meet him on his left. Bare moments before freedom, it lifted him from his broom. His side screamed in response as he flew unaided through the air.

He opened his right eye, peering through the dust and sweat. The ground rose to meet him, but he’d make it. He’d finish the first task. He had broken bones before, at least he would meet the requirements of the Tournament. He braced himself.

The impact never came. He landed in a pillow, the air giving way to settle him on a floating cushion.

He opened his eye again and found Professor McGonagall rushing forward, her wand extended toward him.

“Don’t move, Mr. Potter,” she said, her characteristic brusqueness replaced by the shaky command.

He tried to open his mouth, to tell her he was fine. He’d made it.

It wouldn’t open. A hoarse, wet noise was all he could manage from somewhere in the back of his throat.

“Do not speak!” Her voice was sharp, a tone unlike any he had heard before.

Belatedly, he realized he was floating, the hazy area around him passing quickly as they moved.

He wanted to ask where they were going, but the strained voice of Madam Pomfrey drew his limited attention. He turned his head to greet her, to explain that he was okay.

“Don’t move!” she said, echoing Professor McGonagall. He frowned in confusion, though he felt only the right side of his mouth turn down. He lifted his hand toward his face to find out what was wrong. Somewhere far away, his body vehemently protested his movement.

Madam Pomfrey gestured to Professor McGonagall.

There was a whispered ‘ _Stupify_ ’ from behind him, a flash of red, and his world went dark.

~~XxX~~

Harry awoke with a gasp.

He blinked, the blurry scene around him stubbornly refusing to coalesce into meaningful shapes. Muscle memory dropped his arm onto the table he knew would be by his bedside. He found his glasses waiting there, and fumbled them onto his face.

Sitting up, he surveyed the hospital wing around him. It was empty, save for him, with the beds opposite resting below frosty windows. The door to Madam Pomfrey’s office sat half-open, the…

Frosty windows?

Harry swung his legs off the side of the bed, suppressing a grimace when his left leg offered an uncomfortable twinge of tight pain. He had gotten both legs dangling over the edge of the bed when Madam Pomfrey rushed into the room, her wand brandished in front of her.

“Lie down,” she commanded, her wand already twirling with her diagnostic spells. “How do you feel?” She began to trace his leg with her wand.

“Thirsty,” he croaked.

She stopped her scan and offered him the glass that had been sitting next to where his glasses had been. After a couple of large gulps of water, he settled back in the bed, lifting his arm into her waiting hand as indicated.

“How do you feel?” she repeated, poking at his fingertips with her wand.

“Okay, I guess,” he said with a shrug. The motion pulled his arm out of her hand a little before letting it drop again.

She appraised the arm, turning it over to inspect a startlingly smooth elbow. “The skin isn’t quite as elastic as it should be yet, but that’s to be expected. You’ll have to ‘break it in’ as it were.”

“What do you-” he trailed off, memory lighting in his mind. Patchy visions of fire, earth, and red. “Did Professor McGonagall stun me?”

The matron placed his arm back on the bed and leaned against the one behind her. “Minerva did indeed stun you,” she said. “But it was for your own good. What do you remember?”

“I remember flying around the dragon’s legs. I got the egg and got out from under it.” He scrunched his brow in thought. “I remember…rushing for the finish and getting thrown off my broom. I fell and was caught by a pillow or something. Then Professor McGonagall stunned me after you showed up.”

Madam Pomfrey nodded, her shoulders sagging in a sigh. “That is nearly correct. Mr. Potter, you weren’t thrown off your broom, it was incinerated out from under you.” He sat up in shock and she stepped forward to meet him. Her gentle hand on his chest pushed him back to the bed as she continued. “You suffered third-degree burns over the majority of your left side. Minerva used a cushioning charm to catch you and was levitating you to the medical tent. I had her stun you so you wouldn’t cause any extra damage by moving around.”

He frowned. “So I’ve been in the hospital wing since then?”

“Goodness, no. I’m not able to treat such profound injuries here. You were transported to the medical tent where you stayed until Professor Snape was able to bring some Draught of Living Death for you.” He tried to sit up again but found himself easily held to the bed. “We couldn’t very well keep stunning you over and over until you recovered, now could we? After that, you were taken to St. Mungos. You were there for a few weeks before being returned to Hogwarts. You were given the antidote to the draught this morning.”

He boggled at her, then stared down at his arm. It felt as though he were wearing long-sleeves that were two sizes too small. He lifted his hand to his face, surprised to find no creases at his knuckles.

“They had to regrow the skin,” Madam Pomfrey explained as he turned his hand to find an unmarked palm. “There’s not much else they can do in cases like that. You’ll notice differences all over your body from the regrowth process, even on your uninjured side.” She pointed to his right arm with her wand. “That compound fracture scar from your second year is gone. From when you crashed into Mr. Malfoy during a Quidditch game?”

He ignored her gesture, his right hand flying to his forehead where he felt the all too familiar ridges of his lightning bolt scar.

“Not that one,” she said gently. “We both know that one is a little different.”

He nodded and let his arm fall back to the bed.

“Naturally, Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley have been to see you while you were unconscious. Mr. Diggory and the Beauxbatons champion both stopped by as well.” She paused, a grimace crossing her normally unflappable features. “They, along with the Durmstrang champion, were the only students to see your condition in the medical tent. I believe they wanted to see for themselves that you were going to recover.”

He nodded again, though his mind raced. 

Ron had come to visit him?

He wasn’t sure he liked that he had to be almost killed by a dragon to make his friend believe he hadn’t entered the tournament on his own, but the thought of calling him ‘his friend’ was a very welcome one.

Madam Pomfrey produced a small red ball from her pocket and tapped it with her wand, muttering an incantation under her breath. Once finished, the ball floated out of her hand and into the air, making lazy figure-eights in front of him.

“I want you to catch that with your left hand. When you do, I want you to bend your knee as far as it will go. Then let the ball go and repeat. It shouldn’t take long for you to regain full motion. The ball will get incrementally faster as you catch it, so don’t be surprised when it becomes difficult. Once your arm grows too tired, let me know and we’ll get you some dinner.”

He nodded, raising his hand as instructed and plucking the ball from the air. Then, he raised his knee as far as he could, then let it drop. She watched him for a moment before nodding and returning to her office. He grabbed the ball and lifted his leg, letting his gaze wander around the Hospital Wing again.

Frosted windows. 

Just how long had he been gone?


	6. A Conversation

**Chapter 6: A Conversation**

Harry sat atop his four-poster bed, the echoes of the shrill screams still echoing throughout his empty dorm. He rubbed at his ringing ears, pulling his hand back to check for blood. His golden egg lay, now closed, at the foot of the bed where he had tossed it in reflex.

He had returned to the dorm to find the egg resting on his pillow. A note sat beneath it, with Professor McGonagall’s crisp handwriting across the front. It had, ‘Your Clue,’ written across the front. He flexed his hand as he stared at the offending item. He supposed he should count himself lucky that he actually got a clue to the Second Task, though he’d been given nothing else.

Heavy steps thundered outside the dorm-room door as the older Gryffindors returned to their dorms after their trip to Hogsmeade. Harry’s heart thundered in time, waiting for the footsteps to stop outside the closed door.

He had faced a dragon. There was no reason he couldn’t talk to Ron. Probably.

Years of familiarity heard Ron ascending the steps long before he had thrown open the door. Harry found himself wishing he had prepared a quip or a joke. Anything to relieve the tension that was sure to be in the air. Instead, he stared in silence when the door swung open, revealing Ron. Only his eyes and red-tipped nose were visible beneath a faded hat and scarf. He had bundled himself in his grey winter robes with a too-small jacket over top. Wide-eyes peered out at Harry from between the low seam of his cap, and the scarf wrapped around his mouth.

He spun from Harry, sticking his head back out into the stairwell. “Hermione!” His voice cracked for the volume of his shout, even muffled as it was.

Lighter footsteps ran up the stairs and a similarly garbed Hermione appeared behind Ron, her bushy hair crammed into a winter hat. Her momentum halted when she laid eyes on Harry and she blinked as if to dispel an illusion. Her pause was short-lived and she barreled into him, embracing him in a hug that knocked him flat onto the bed.

He patted her back awkwardly. Hermione and Mrs. Weasley seemed to be in constant competition to see who could smother him first, but even so, he enjoyed the sentiment if not the practice.

“I’m sorry!” she said, scrambling off of him and standing. She pulled at the hem of her jacket, straightening it. “I know you don’t-we were so worried!” Her voice came high and fast and she swiped at her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve. Ron looked to the floor, nodding.

“I’m okay,” Harry said, getting to his feet. “Just about good as new.”

“They wouldn’t tell us how badly you’d been hurt,” Hermione said, her voice growing more hysterical as she continued. “They said you were sent to St. Mungos!” Her eyes watered and she wiped them again with her sleeve. “I tried to ask Fleur and Cedric about it but they wouldn’t say anything…they’d just go pale-”

“It’s okay,” Harry said. “See? I’m okay now. No need to worry about it.”

“Your hand looks really strange,” Ron said over her reply. He pointed to Harry’s left hand. “It hasn’t got any wrinkles on the knuckles. Looks like a bunch of sausage links.”

“Ron!”

Harry laughed. “I thought the same thing,” he said, rolling up his sleeve to expose his elbow. “It’s smooth here, behind my knee, and on my toes too.”

“That’s mental,” Ron said, leaning in for a closer look.

He held his arm out further so they could both see it. Hermione shifted her weight from foot to foot, torn between worry and curiosity.

“Yeah,” he said, twisting his arm a little so they could see the strange folds that appeared on the too-tight skin. “They had to regrow most of it. Madam Pomfrey said I have to ‘break it in,’ or something.” This was clearly the wrong thing to say, as both his friends grew somber at his words.

“How much did they have to regrow?” Hermione asked.

“My…er…whole left side,” he answered, doing his best to sound nonchalant.

“You got third-degree burns over your entire left side?! Harry, that could have killed you! No wonder Cedric and Fleur didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said, frowning. “I expected to get eaten, honestly.”

“About that,” Ron said, startling Harry, Hermione, and apparently himself, as the redhead seemed surprised that he had spoken. “About the goblet thing,” he clarified. “I’m really sorry. I know you didn’t put your name in. Hell, I knew it before the whole dragon thing but I thought you wouldn’t want to talk to me after the way I acted.”

He took a deep breath and barreled on.

“When you flew through the fire and fell to the ground…Well, like Hermione said, we were worried. I thought I might not get to tell you I was sorry, so when you made it through…I wanted to do it as soon as I could, whether or not you still wanted to be my friend.”

Harry stared at his friend, the specter of Ron’s anger still hanging on at the edges of his vision. Ron still seemed so tall…so much bigger than him…

“It’s okay,” he said after a moment. Ron’s accusation still stung but he could get over it. He hoped. Besides, it’d be nice to have things back to normal at Hogwarts. As normal as they got, anyway.

Ron grinned at Harry’s reply, tension fleeing his posture.

Hermione muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, ‘Finally,’ before speaking up. Her tone was less hysterical, and far more in line with how she usually sounded. “Professor McGonagall told us to send you to her as soon as you were back and feeling up to it. She said she’s got information about the Second Task and the Yule Ball.”

“The Yule Ball?”

Ron groaned as an answer, lifting a hand towards his trunk. “It’s the reason for those awful dress robes. On Christmas night there’s going to be some big dance.” He grinned a crooked, half-grin. “You’ll have to find a date but I expect the ‘tragic hero’ angle won’t hurt your chances.”

“ _Ronald_!”

It took the barest of seconds for Harry’s well-practiced eyes to search Ron’s face for a sign of jealousy or irritation. He found only mirth resting in the corner of his friend’s smiling eyes as he laughed. Harry joined him, smiling for what felt like the first time since his name had flown into the air on a piece of smoldering parchment.

Hermione rolled her eyes, and despite the strange feeling lingering in his left arm and leg, Harry felt better than he had in months.

~~XxX~~

The next morning saw only little improvement for Harry. His meeting with Professor McGonagall had gone as he had predicted. No matter how he asked, due to his status as Champion, he couldn’t skip the ball. He shoveled eggs onto his plate with his left hand, spilling some across the table. Whether from using his off-hand or his still inelastic skin, he wasn’t sure. He switched to his right hand, promising himself he would do extra stretches later to make up for it.

A dingy gray owl landed in front of him along with the morning post. Attached to its leg was a letter, ‘HP’ written on the front in a familiar messy scrawl. He pulled the small letter from the offered leg and opened it.

_Harry,_

_On the move. Coming back. No letters. See you soon._

_-S_

He stuffed the letter into a pocket. Excitement warred with horror inside him as he stared down at his plate. It had been far too long since he had the opportunity to see Sirius in the flesh, but he’d be in danger of being caught. Guilt overpowered the other emotions, sending him into a familiar spiral. It gnawed at him as he lingered on the thought that he was the reason Sirius was returning to England.

He retrieved the crumpled letter and handed it over to Ron and Hermione in answer to their quizzical stares at his sudden shift in mood. He ignored Hermione’s vague speculations that followed, trying his best to combat the anxiety rolling inside his chest.

Ron, on the other hand, was a balm. He was acting as though nothing had ever been amiss between the two of them. Harry found it rather easy to play along, at times almost forgetting what had happened.

Almost.

Even while laughing along with his friend, he couldn’t stop searching his face for signs of hidden anger. He hoped to someday return to the level of amiability he had enjoyed with his first friend, but until then…a little extra caution never hurt.

They spent the rest of the Sunday morning tackling the golden egg. They had been thrown from the Common Room after opening it for the first time and had settled on walking the snowy grounds, doing their best to stay warm as they pondered the egg. Burying it had done nothing, though when Ron tossed it into a snowdrift next to one of the walls of the castle, it had become marginally less grating.

By early afternoon, they called it quits, Ron and Hermione leaving Harry at his request. All the walking, while probably good for his leg, had left him stiff and aching. He lowered himself onto a bench in a courtyard, the sun offering a small respite from the cold mid-December air. Even though he had been asleep while he had spent his weeks in the hospital, he still felt cooped up. Trapped.

Shivering, he rubbed his arms through the sleeves of his robe for warmth and made to stand. He paused, halfway up, as a tawny owl swooped into the courtyard, alighting on the bench next to him. Tied to its leg was a small letter with his name written in a thin curvy script.

_Harry,_

_I apologize for using an owl to contact you, but I could think of no other way to reach you without wandering through the castle._

_I was hoping you would be able to meet with me this evening. I have some things I would like to discuss with you, and I would prefer to do so away from the inquisitive gazes of others._

_If you are interested, please meet me by the stairs to the second floor at eight. I know my request is a strange one, and I would understand if you do not want to come._

_-Fleur_

The letter was no less unbelievable the second and third time Harry read through it.

 _She_ wanted to meet with _him_?

The egg lay forgotten for the rest of the day, his focus altered from the unintelligible screeching to the upcoming meeting that made only slightly more sense. His musings carried him back to Gryffindor Tower where he deposited his egg and all the way through dinner. He found himself keeping the meeting quiet when asked about his distracted mood by Hermione after they had finished eating. Ron, if he noticed, kept his mouth shut, in his new practice of ‘act as though everything is normal’.

Curiosity bumped against nervousness as eight o’clock drew nearer. He had sifted through every possibility he could think of; from more ‘tournament impropriety’ to an outright argument where she took back what she said about believing him. He frowned, the latter popping back into his thoughts unbidden yet again. No sooner had he managed to clear his thoughts, than he came upon Fleur, already waiting for him. Exchanging nothing more than quiet hellos, she led him to a nearby unused classroom.

A fire blazed in a small fireplace, inset in the stone wall. The desks were still arranged for class, tidy rows spanning the room.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me tonight,” Fleur said, shutting the door behind her with a shiver.

“Er, no problem,” he answered.

Fleur gestured him to a chair set near to the fire and took one of her own much closer to the crackling flames. Though she sat so close to the fireplace, she didn’t take off her dark blue winter cloak. With an absent movement of her arm, she pulled her long silvery hair; made radiant orange by the firelight, over her shoulder to rest across her lap.

“I asked you here for a few reasons,” she began, her accented voice quick and confident. “The first was to see how you were recovering.”

He reeled for a moment before the memory of Madam Pomfrey’s words floated back into his mind. She was one of the few who had seen him before he had been healed.

He examined her in the dim light, noting the tension at the corner of her eyes and the way she slipped her fingers through her hair.

“I’m fine,” he said, hoping to put any of her lingering worries to rest.

“I am glad to hear it,” she said, the confidence in her voice slipping away like smoke through fingers. “Your injuries were severe.”

“So I was told.”

They sat without speaking, only the spitting fire and wind rattling the single window in the room making any noise.

“I admit,” she said suddenly, making him twitch in surprise, “seeing the extent of your injuries served to illustrate the true dangers we face in this competition.” She fixed him with wide-eyes, the whites visible around the blue of her irises. “When you were levitated into the medical tent…I could not recognize you at first.”

Harry sat, silent. He had wanted to ask Madam Pomfrey just how badly he had been hurt, but something in the way she spoke about it made him glad for the ignorance.

She stood suddenly and began to pace, her hair still clutched in her hand.

“It was…I do not…” 

She paused and shot a pleading look over her shoulder at him.

 _“Putain Fleur, reprends-toi. Tu vas tout gâcher à ce rythme_ ,” she muttered. She turned to face him, purposefully dropping her hair and squaring her shoulders. “I should be honest with you.”

“O-okay…”

She took a deep breath, letting her shoulders sag as she blew it out. “Do you recall, after we met in the owlery, that I told you that I had enjoyed our conversation?”

Harry nodded, distinctly remembering the feeling of contributing little to said ‘conversation’.

“Would it surprise you to know,” she said, her hand twirling the ends of her hair through her fingers, “that I enjoyed our conversation because it was the first real one I have had since I was a small girl?”

He hesitated, unsure what to say, but when he looked up into her face, she saw the nervous expectation of response in her perfect features.

“Well…yeah, it would.”

She smiled, though to him it looked a little sad. “I expect many would feel the same.” Her smile faded completely. “What do you know of Veela?”

“Not much,” he answered, casting his mind back to the World Cup, and Hermione’s miniature lecture as they descended the long stairwell from the top box after the match. “My friend said they have some sort of allure…or something. I saw the cheerleaders transform into big…er…bird things.”

“That is usually the extent of people’s knowledge of us…” She trailed off, biting her lip. “Do you have somewhere to be after this? I would like to explain...me…to you. If you have time. And if you want to.”

Her words became fast and her accent became more pronounced as she grew nervous. She noticed a death-grip on a fistful of her silvery hair and let it fall.

“That’s okay with me. I don’t have anywhere to be.”

She smiled gratefully and took her seat. “It is the allure that I wish to speak of first.”

He waited, trying not to let his building curiosity show. Hermione had known surprisingly little of the Veela and what had made most of the men at the stadium attempt to join them on the field.

“Do you recall at the World Cup, when the cheerleaders began their dance?”

He nodded.

“I gather you also remember the reaction that followed, our viewing box included?”

He nodded again and she arched an eyebrow at him. 

“I thought you might. I recall you glancing around at the ridiculous display of some of those in your party.”

He felt his face heat and he dropped his eyes to his knees. Perhaps he hadn’t been quite as sneaky as he hoped.

“There is no reason to be embarrassed,” she said gently, leaning forward to capture his gaze. “That is a large part of what I want to talk about. What do you know of the allure?”

“Not much,” he answered, trying to regain his mental footing. He had considered a lot of options in regards to what Fleur had wanted to talk to him about…a strange lecture on the Veela allure had not been on his list. “My friend Ron said it made his mind all fuzzy…well…then you saw how he acted. Hermione said it wouldn’t work on her because she’s a girl.”

“I see. Again, that is common knowledge. If you were to look us up in textbooks and literature, that is what you would find. It is not wholly inaccurate, just incomplete.” 

She shifted on her chair and crossed her legs, her bright blue eyes boring into his. He shifted his gaze to her forehead out of reflex. 

“Firstly, it is not so simple as making a man’s mind ‘fuzzy’ with attraction.” She paused, tilting her head to the side as she weighed her words. “According to these textbooks, it is simply a lust-driven magical attraction.” She made a face as she finished. “It is nothing so crass. It is less related to say, a Siren’s song, than it is to passive legilimency.”

“Passive what?” he asked, frowning.

“The art of mind-reading.”

A chill seeped into Harry’s bones. His stomach churned while his chest contracted in icy fear. 

Somebody could just read his mind? Discover his secrets? She could-

“My ability is not so direct,” she continued quickly. He forced the traces of fear from his features. “Though,” she added with a smile, “it is a rarity to be completely immune to its touch. I have never experienced such a thing.”

“I’m immune?” he repeated, hopeful.

“It would seem so, but we will get to that. I do not want you to think I walk around reading minds just by being near people.”

He pushed a flare of anxiety down with ruthless force. For someone who claimed she couldn’t read minds, she was doing a good job of voicing his fears.

“The allure will reach out to a person, sense their emotional state, and attempt to turn their attention favorably towards me. They will then feel compelled to try to then turn my attention to them and keep it there. If it cannot shift them, then they are immune.”

“So then why only men? If it’s about emotions.”

She sighed in response, leaning back in her chair. “Because there is an element of lust inherent in the allure, though it is not the whole picture. It does not work on your friend, not because she is a girl, but because she is not homosexual. If she were, her attention would be drawn the same as anyone else. Homosexual men are similarly unaffected.”

His eyes widened in sudden realization. “I’m not-”

“I know,” she said, holding up a hand to forestall him. “With them, I can feel the allure latch to and try to shift their emotions. It fails. With you…it cannot get a hold of you. Even with those unaffected by the allure, I can feel, after a fashion, their emotional state as my abilities shift them. With you, there is nothing. It is not so dissimilar to the way it reacts to an occlumens.”

“You can feel their emotions?” he asked. If he was forced to choose one of the two, he’d prefer his emotions be on display than all of his thoughts, but he still abhorred the idea. He paused. “What’s an occlumens?”

“Somebody who has learned to close their mind to counter legilimency. As to your other question…” She trailed off, tapping a finger on her chin in thought. “It is difficult to describe. I cannot feel anything as clearly as ‘happy’ or ‘angry’. My abilities have to…push differently…on a happy person than they do an angry one. Over time, I have learned to discern those pushes to understand how someone is feeling.”

“It does that for everyone?” he asked.

She nodded, offering him a small smile. “Everyone who is not immune.”

“Seems…overwhelming.”

A small laugh escaped her and she nodded again. “That is not the reply I was expecting but yes, it can be. It is more like hearing a constant noise. You learn to tune it out.”

“But…you can’t feel mine?” He felt a fool for asking for clarification but he needed to be sure.

“No,” she said, smiling. “I cannot.” 

The smile dissipated.

She gathered her cloak around her, even while the fire still blazed next to her. “I was selfish…and afraid…in that tent.” The color drained from her face and her gaze slipped to the floor. “I wanted you to get better, of course, but I was afraid I had already missed my chance at having someone to talk to.” She fixed him with a weak smile. “Even so…I thought maybe we could still talk…”

He goggled at her. How she thought herself selfish was beyond him. He was growing increasingly surprised to discover such a tentative side to the woman who had been equal parts aloof, confident, and furious during his limited time around her.

A small voice whispered from the box that caged his anxieties. She was not the only one who too often put on a happy facade for the world to see.

The realization was a lightning strike in his mind. 

Where he had Hermione and Ron, Fleur had no-one. His monikers and nicknames were a source of constant unwanted attention but at least he had friends; a respite from it all. She had none of that.

The world came back into focus when he realized he had allowed the silence to drag on, and her expression had become downcast as she picked at the sleeves of her cloak.

“I don’t mind,” he said, doing his best to offer her a reassuring smile. “If you really want to…we can…talk.” Saying the words aloud felt awkward, but a thrill of excitement rose in him. “I don’t see how that’s…selfish.”

“That is kind,” she said, looking up at him. “But even asking you here served selfish purposes. I wanted to see you healed so I might stop seeing…the other you, from the tent, in my nightmares.” She shuddered, pulling her cloak even tighter.

His skin erupted into gooseflesh at her haunting words. Death had been far closer than he realized. “It really is fine,” he repeated, his mouth dry. Her eyes were back on the floor. He needed to make her feel better. Make her happy again…somehow. He wasn’t very good at cheering Hermione up when she was upset, and he’d known her for years. “I don’t think that it’s selfish. Or that you’re selfish…” He paused. “Er, not that I know you better than you know you. Or…”

Rather than become angry, she laughed lightly, smiling at him. “You are very earnest. Thank you, ‘Arry.”

The smile that grew on his face was uncontrollable. 

Her accent across his name made it unaccountably personal, like a nickname. He’d never had a nickname before, or at least not one worthwhile. 

With effort, he shook the phantom sneered epithets from his relatives out of his mind, along with the reminder of his unwanted moniker as the Boy-Who-Lived. He focused on Fleur, noting with a small burst of pride that she looked much more relaxed.

“I did say there were multiple reasons I wanted to talk to you,” she said. “I wanted to give you a hint about the Second Task and the egg.”

“You did? But…I didn’t tell you about the dragons…”

“Nor I, you,” she said gently. “So I suppose we are even.” She took a deep breath and let it out through her nose. “I want to be a good friend, and a good friend would help you through this ordeal you never asked for.”

And she had called _him_ earnest. 

“Thank you,” he said past a growing lump in his throat.

“Next time you are able, put your egg underwater. It will make that dreadful noise useful.”

“Do you know what the task is?” he asked.

“I believe so,” she said with a grimace. “Suffice to say, I doubt you will need to worry about being burned again. We must retrieve something from the bottom of that awful lake. You should still check your egg, as it is not explicit in its wording but that is my belief.”

“But it’s so deep…How are we supposed to manage that?”

“In truth, I suspect that is part of the task. Our choice for how to navigate the waters will make a significant difference in our effectiveness.”

“I’ll have to ask Hermione if she has any ideas…” he said, frowning. “What are you going to do?”

She smiled apologetically. “I am practicing casting the bubble-head charm non-verbally. I do not know if…”

“Non-verbals are a little out of my skill range. Hermione may know something, who knows, maybe she can help you too.”

Fleur’s open expression became stony as she withdrew into herself. “I do not usually get along well with other women,” she muttered. “They find me threatening, or become jealous of my appearance.” She waved her hand around in the air, gesturing to her face.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean-It just seemed like something she’d be interested in. I don’t think she dislikes you or anything. The most she’s said is that she doubts that you’re Veela.”

“I suppose…” she answered reluctantly. “Maybe someday.” She smiled a shy smile that made his heart race. “I am not very good at meeting people. For real, that is.”

“For real?” he echoed, confused.

She nodded. “Sometimes it is easier for me to smile, nod, and ‘be pretty’ as people expect me to, rather than try to be genuine with them.” She let out a short, mirthless laugh. “I already grow tired of acting, though I expect I will be doing more of it now that my father has been placed within your Ministry.” She looked up at him, her head cocked to the side. “I think this is something you understand, is it not?”

He nodded, thinking back to the top-box, where he had seen her put on a serene smile for Minister Fudge. The same smile he always tried to muster for the man, who wanted only to meet the Boy-Who-Lived, instead of Harry Potter.

“Regarding that, er, somewhat,” she continued, her fluent speech stuttering for the first time. She fidgeted in her seat and he had to suppress a smile.

He’d gotten quite good at reading people over the years, it was a necessary skill for surviving his Uncle’s violent days as much as possible. But, where most people tried to hide their feelings, Fleur appeared as an open book. A refreshing change after Ron’s recent two-facedness.

“One of the things I asked you here for was…” she trailed off, again running the ends of her silver hair through her fingers. He watched as she placed her hands on her knees and took in a deep breath. “I wished to ask you to come with me to the Yule Ball.”

He was dreaming. 

He had to be. 

There was no way his luck extended beyond surviving dragon’s fire and getting Ron back. Surely a date to the Ball with the most beautiful woman he had ever met hadn’t just fallen into his lap.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts to give a proper answer.

“No?” she asked, hurt mingling with surprise in her voice.

“W-what?” he stammered, watching her perfect face fall. “I mean yes. Of course, I’ll go with you. If that’s what you really want.”

“Thank you.” She stared at the ground, her flush tinting her ears pink. “I have never been rejected before. It was surprising to hear, even if it is not what you mean.” 

She paused and her face shifted to a bright red. 

“That sounded egotistical but I did not mean it like that! It is my abilities. Men usually cannot say no to me.” She grabbed a fistful of her hair, her blush traveling down her neck to be hidden behind the collar of her cloak. “That did not sound any better,” she mumbled.

“Why me?” he asked, hoping to distract her from her obvious embarrassment. He couldn’t be her first choice.

“It is as I said before. I have not had a proper, enjoyable conversation since I was young. I do not wish to play the part of ‘serene date’ to someone under the effect of my allure all night.”

Disappointment flitted through his thoughts and he crushed the feeling down. There was no reason someone like her would be interested in a shorty, skinny, useless fourteen-year-old like him. He knew he should count himself lucky she even wanted to talk to him, let alone go to the ball together. At least now he didn’t have to go through the mortifying process of asking someone himself.

“I am sorry for ambushing you with all this,” she said into the growing silence. “I was so excited to have someone to talk to, and I was afraid you would not want to…” She hesitated before speaking again. “I am sorry again. I am often told I can be…blunt.”

“It’s…refreshing,” he heard himself say. It was the truth. Few were genuine with him, and at times he thought Hermione might be the only one. It was nice to have one other.

“I expect you run into people wearing polite masks quite often, do you not?”

He started with surprise as she put words to his thoughts yet again. “Are you sure you can’t read my mind or feel what I’m feeling?”

“Yes,” she answered, a frown appearing on her lips. “Why do you ask?”

He hesitated, feeling foolish. “You keep saying what I’m thinking.”

She considered his reply for a moment before answering. “I think it is because we have a surprising amount in common with how people view us. It is easy for me to understand how you would feel being put into the spotlight for something beyond your control.” 

She smiled and brushed a few wayward strands of hair back behind her ear. A motion he found surprisingly alluring.

“I promise I cannot tell what you are feeling. Not being able to do so is a little scary, almost like losing your hearing, but as you said…it is also a little refreshing.”

He was struck by a sudden intense feeling of fondness for Fleur. With Hermione, he had to be on his guard. His intelligent friend almost seemed sure he was hiding something from her and often pestered him their first few weeks back to Hogwarts to see if something was wrong. 

Being vigilant against slipping up and revealing his secrets about the way he was treated was exhausting. It was a relief to have someone who didn’t have the faintest inkling of his life outside of Hogwarts. It was as free as he was ever going to get from the oppressive specter of his relatives, and he resolved to keep it that way.

Desperate to keep his newfound lightheartedness alive, he sought to keep the conversation going. This world where she wanted to be friends with him felt fragile and unreal. He didn’t want it to end.

“So, what’s Beauxbatons like?” he found himself asking. His voice cracked slightly and he winced internally. Maybe she hadn’t noticed.

If she did, she didn’t show it and her face lit up at the question.

“It is beautiful,” she said. “Not to say that Hogwarts is not beautiful in its own way but Beauxbatons has a warmth that your school does not. And I am not speaking only about the weather. It is difficult to describe the difference as they are both large castles in the middle of sprawling fields. Beauxbatons has more open areas where Hogwarts has the forest.” She smiled warmly. “Perhaps you’ll get the opportunity to visit France one day.”

He listened, enraptured, as she described the interior of the castle. It included, to his immense surprise, a fountain named after Nicolas Flamel and his wife. He briefly considered mentioning his adventure with the stone but the impulse passed. If they were friends for long enough, there was no doubt he would end up sharing his insane adventures. For now, he enjoyed listening to her speak.

Their evening dwindled away, the night creeping in while he listened to her talk about her favorite classes and her love of charms and enchantment. He did his best to avoid asking of family, lest she reciprocate in misguided kindness. Embers smoldered in the fireplace when Fleur finally brought their conversation to a close.

“We will have to continue this some other time,” she said, glancing at the window on the far side of the room. Moonlight shone through the dirty panes, casting faded light onto the stone floor.

A yawn betrayed his desire to continue the conversation for a little longer and he nodded agreement.

She turned to him once they had returned to the deserted hallway outside the classroom. “I will talk to you later,” she said, though her tone was that of a tentative question, rather than a statement.

“Sure.”

She flashed him a luminescent smile and nodded. “At least once more before the ball?”

“Just let me know when.”.

She waved a quick goodbye and set off down the hall, back towards the entrance of the castle. Once she was out of sight around the corner, he pulled the Marauder’s Map from inside his robes and started his trek back to Gryffindor Tower.

~~XxX~~

“Where have you been?” Hermione asked when he slipped through the portrait hole into the common room. She sat in one of the large chairs next to a low fire, a thick textbook open on her lap. “Ron went to bed an hour ago,” she continued without waiting for an answer. “I would have gone too but ever since the dragon…” She paused and smiled apologetically at him as he sat down opposite her. “I’m sorry, Harry. I can’t help but worry.”

“It’s okay.” 

He hadd spent his time dodging Filch and Mrs. Norris trying to work out how he was going to tell his friends where he had been. It had been a relief to see Hermione sitting alone. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to deal with even a mild bout of Ron’s jealousy. 

“I was out talking to Fleur.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrows disappeared behind her bushy fringe. “About the tournament? This late?”

“Sort of, yeah. She gave me a hint about the egg and told me what she thinks the Second Task is.”

“But you’re competitors, why would she want to help you?” She placed a tasseled bookmark in her book and closed it, frowning.

“She wants to help me get through the tournament. She thinks it’s unfair that I’m being forced to compete.”

“Well, she’s right, of course, but why did it take hours for her to give you a hint?”

“She…er…wants to be friends.”

Hermione gaped. 

“With you? Whatever for?” He frowned and opened his mouth to reply, but she hurriedly continued. “I’m sorry. That was a dreadful thing to say. I didn’t mean it to sound like she wouldn’t want to be your friend. It’s a little surprising that an older student, from another country, and an opposing Champion no less, would simply approach you and ask to be friends. It just…seems a little suspicious to me.”

“I believe her,” he said, trying not to sound too vehement in his defense of Fleur. The last thing he wanted was an argument. “She said she has trouble making a lot of friends since she’s Veela.” 

A twinge of guilt followed his explanation. He hoped he hadn’t given away too much personal information.

“So she is Veela,” Hermione said, glancing down at her book. “I suppose I owe Ron an apology,” she added, chagrined. Her intense gaze snapped up to his. “But that means you’re actually immune to the Veela allure.”

“Seems so.”

“I wonder-” Hermione began but was interrupted by a large yawn. “I had better get to bed,” she said instead, rising from her seat. “Oh! Let me know what you find out from that egg. If your new friend doesn’t have any tips, I might be able to help you with this task as well.”

Harry frowned after her, watching as she vanished from sight up the stairs. Maybe he had imagined the slight bite in her tone at the end. Shrugging to himself, he followed her lead. It wasn’t in his nature to trust someone right away but he had enjoyed his time with Fleur, and hoped the Yule Ball would be at least somewhat bearable with her on his arm. She hadn’t appeared to be putting on an act, or outright lying to him, something he had become an expert in spotting.

He changed into his pajamas and slid into bed, taking care not to wake the others. Restless sleep took him and he dreamt of a stranger wearing a smiling mask.


	7. The Yule Ball

**Chapter 7: The Yule Ball**

“I don’t know if I’m going to get this,” Harry said, groaning in frustration as he trod on Fleur’s toes. Again.

“It is okay,” she said, leading him back to the center of the empty classroom they had co-opted for his lessons. “That is why we are not wearing our shoes, remember?”

He had arrived that evening as she had asked, only a handful of days before the Yule Ball. She had stacked all the desks at the back of the room. When he opened the door to find her standing in the middle of the floor, barefoot, he could only goggle at her. She wore a light robe as well, rather than the heavy cloak he had often seen her in, and she wore her hair tied behind her head with a simple black ribbon.

“Are you ready?” she asked, inviting him forward with a wave of her hand.

“I suppose so.” He stared down at her bare feet. “Aren’t your feet cold?” No sooner had the question left his lips than he realized he was beginning to sweat beneath his heavy robes.

“Hogwarts is not the…coziest of winter locations,” she explained while he removed the heavy outer layer of his robes, leaving the normal one underneath. “I am not fond of winter,” she said, gesturing to one of the frosted windows along the side wall. “While back home it can get quite cold, especially at night, it just never seems to stop here. It is as though it will keep going until we all freeze to death. Since I prefer to be warm, I have cast several warming charms around the room and on the floor.” 

She pointed down to the bottom of his robe, then offered him an embarrassed smile. “If you do not mind, please take off your shoes as well. Anyone who is learning how to dance will inevitably tread on their partner’s feet. This way, it will not hurt.”

The initial burst of mild indignation at her assumption was put swiftly to bed, as she had been correct in her prediction.

“Once more,” she said after they had reset in the middle of the room. “Remember to count aloud if you are losing track of our steps.”

He nodded, trying to force the sensation of her warm waist beneath his hand from his mind. He looked down at their feet and began counting. It was far easier to keep track of their steps that way, rather than looking up into her eyes, or directly ahead, awkwardly staring at her chest and shoulders.

“One, two, three-” he began under his breath. He stepped forward with his left foot, remembering to prompt her backward with his hand that rested on her waist. “One, two, three-” If he could push the distractions from his mind, the simple six-step movement she had taught him wasn’t too challenging. The difficulty lay with forgetting the warmth beneath his hands, the sky-blue eyes that stared down at him, or the faint wisps of cinnamon that drifted to him on the steps where they were closest.

“Well done,” she said after they finished their tenth flawless set in a row. Well, flawless in that he hadn’t stepped on her foot even once. “You are a quick study.”

He stepped back, nodding. “It’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be,” he said, rubbing his hands together in an effort to return the heat that had dissipated on their parting. He realized his feet were beginning to feel a chill as well.

A small squeal from Fleur told him she had noticed the same and she dashed for her wand. The rosewood wand rested on her folded cloak on a chair beneath one of the windows. Two warming charms later, they were back in their shoes and warm robes.

“I quite enjoy dancing,” she said. “On the rare occasions I am able to participate, anyway.”

“I thought it was going to be a lot worse,” he said, straightening up as he finished tying his shoes. “I bet it’ll be easier with some music. More fun too.”

“It is,” she answered, leading him out of the classroom. “You seem to be a natural.” She looked over and smiled at him. “Perhaps the Ball will not be as bad as we are afraid it will be.”

“Maybe not,” he agreed. Though, he wouldn’t have said no to more than one practice lesson.

“Then I will look forward to it,” she said with a smile. “Goodnight, ‘Arry.”

He bid her goodnight and stared after her as she walked away to return to the Beauxbatons carriage. Thoughts and emotions whirled violently inside of him, though, as usual, he managed to keep them from his face. It was lucky she couldn’t tell what he was feeling. He doubted it’d be a pleasant experience for her. He turned to make his way back to Gryffindor tower, the storm of thoughts settling into a small feeling of pride. He was the one who got to take Fleur Delacour to the Yule Ball, after all.

~~XxX~~

The final days until the Ball flashed by, dragging Harry along with them whether he was prepared or not. Ron had grown increasingly agitated as the twenty-fifth drew nearer. He hadn’t had any luck with the girls he had asked to go with him to the Ball, and though he didn’t say it, Harry could see the small spikes of envy directed at him whenever the topic arose. Hermione had been little help, her already high-strung attitude reaching new heights as she sifted through a half-dozen books that had even a bare mention of wizard dances.

Ron and Harry stood facing away from each other in their dorm room, each pulling on the final garments of their dress robes. Dean, Neville, and Seamus had left the two stragglers to finish on their own.

“Ruddy hell,” Ron grumbled, swiping his hands down across his chest in a futile effort to make the large puff of frills lay flat.

Harry pulled the last item from his garment box, a small dark green tie that snaked itself out of his fingers and up his arm to tie itself around his neck in a sleek, simple bow-tie. He slid out of the room once he had finished, leaving Ron to his muted swears.

Neville waited for him in the common room, alternating between sitting and standing every few seconds. He shot Harry a nervous grin, sitting down on the edge of one of the cushioned chairs near the fire. Harry joined him, opting to lean against the back of one of the chairs, rather than risk wrinkling his robes. He somehow doubted Fleur would show up with a single thread out of place. He wanted to be as close to presentable as he could manage.

A door from the dorms slammed closed and Fred and George thundered down the stairs, offering Harry a simultaneous wink as they strode by, wearing identical robes. Next out was Lavender, who, perhaps unsurprisingly, wore a sleek dress the color of her namesake. She waved to Harry and Neville as she passed and slipped out the portrait hole, the click of her heels cutting off as the Fat Lady swung closed behind her.

Hermione joined them next, the red flush of embarrassment visible beneath the makeup she wore for the special occasion. Her dress wasn’t nearly as form-fitting as Lavender’s, flowing out at the waist in a waterfall of off-blue fabric. Most impressive was her hair, which she had somehow tamed into a reasonable bun at the back of her head.

“You look quite nice,” she said lightly as she approached, though her voice trembled with nerves. “So do you, Neville. Are you ready?”

Neville nodded and his gaze darted over to the stairs to the boy’s dorm. “S-shouldn’t we wait for Ron?”

“I suppose we should,” Hermione said. “I hope he doesn’t take long.”

A few minutes later he trudged down the stairs, the lace at his neck no less ridiculous for his prolonged ministrations.

“Well,” Hermione said, her voice uncharacteristically high. “We had better get going!”

~~XxX~~

The four of them heard the gathering students outside the Great Hall long before they saw them. Indiscernible conversation reverberated up the halls as they walked. They turned the final corner to find a milling mass of students, each one in various states of fancy dress. Green and red streamers floated through the air, bending and folding themselves into various Christmas shapes. Amused laughter floated out of the crowd of students as confetti lifted itself off the floor only to rain upon the ball-goers again.

“That’s pretty cool,” Neville said as three of the green ribbons spun themselves together to form a floating Christmas tree. Ron grunted a reply, though his face had relaxed while he took in the impressive display.

Harry stared out at the assembled crowd. It was mostly made up of older students he recognized but couldn’t name. They talked, laughed, and spun to show off their fancy dress to their friends. Movement on an older girl’s dress caught his eye, and to his astonishment, the lace at the hem of her dress began to undulate across the fabric, weaving into different patterns as it moved.

He was pulled from his admiration by the distinctive sound of Professor McGonagall calling his name. 

“Mr. Potter, this way please!” She stood out in the mass of students, not only for the years she held over them, but for the fact that she wore exactly the same robes as she did every day: a spartan black robe with a simple pointed black hat. “Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, Mr. Longbottom, please wait here with the other students until the doors are opened.”

She led Harry away from his friends and around a corner that Harry vaguely recalled leading to the dungeons. The other Champions and their dates were waiting for him there. Cedric stared into the middle distance, flanked by Cho Chang. Both wore black robes with complimentary golden accents woven throughout. Cho’s long dark hair was braided loosely, small golden baubles intertwined with her tresses.

Krum stood further down the hall with his date. His face was a picture of indifference above a fine set of blood-red robes. Next to him, wearing a complementary dark red dress, was an attractive brown-haired girl that Harry had not seen before. She seemed well-matched for Krum though, as she too seemed to wish she were anywhere else.

They stood in the hall, and then Harry’s attention focused to a single point.

Fleur waited for him, standing off to the side with her hands clasped in front of her. Silvery threads were interwoven in her gray satin dress, turning the plain color into a shimmering dance as the light of the hallway reflected off its surface. Her hair glowed in the light, an effect only heightened when she beamed at him. The long fabric of her dress rippled as she stepped forward. It was not immodest and clung lightly to her figure. A lace band reached up and wrapped around her left shoulder, while the right was bare. Above it all, she wore a small nervous smile.

He shifted as he stared, suddenly feeling overdressed in his triple-layered robes and the sight of her spellbound him. He couldn’t seem to breathe, let alone speak.

Professor McGonagall left as Fleur stepped up to Harry, who hadn’t moved from where he’d frozen.

“We do not really match…” she said in greeting, her blue eyes scanning Harry’s robes, then flitting over to the other two couples.

She turned back to him, her eyes narrowed as she stared. After a minute of close inspection, she produced her wand from behind her back and waved it across herself. As she did, the silvery color shifted into a deep green that perfectly matched the accents in Harry’s outfit.

“Very impressive,” Professor McGonagall said as she returned from the now-quiet corridor. “The control required for a gradual shift like that is not easily attained. Well done.”

“Thank you,” Fleur said, a faint blush touching her cheeks before she turned back to Harry. “That is better, even if it does not highlight my hair as much anymore.”

“It’s…good,” he finally managed. He had the presence of mind to kick himself internally, but he still couldn’t come up with a more well-thought-out reply.

“Champions,” Professor McGonagall called, an official cast to her voice. “It is time. Please line up and follow me.”

Harry swallowed as he and Fleur took a spot at the head of the line. He stole a glance over to her, and his anxiety settled a little when he found her biting her lip with nervous energy. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. A small, perfect smile appeared on her face and she squared her shoulders as they stopped in front of the open doors to the Great Hall.

A sea of expectant faces stared back at him. He missed the introduction of the Champions for the thundering of his heart in his ears. Fleur grabbed his hand, shocking him back into the moment.

“Are you ready?” she whispered, leading him out onto the floor ahead of the other three couples. When she stopped, she turned, readjusted her grip on his hand, and placed his other on her waist.

“As ready as I’m going to get,” he managed, mimicking her deep breathing in an effort to ignore his rising panic.

At a word, the band began playing the opening waltz and Fleur began counting for him under her breath. 

“One, two, three-” Thankful for her quiet count, he focused on his feet, now shod and all the more dangerous for it. “One, two, three-” 

Their first set of steps completed without incident. 

“One, two, three-” He pushed delicately on her waist, steering them in a slow circle.

“One, two, three-”

Cinnamon wafted to him, stronger than it had been during their lesson.

“One, two, three-”

His mind began to clear as he chanced a glance up at Fleur to find her perfect smile gone, replaced by a genuine one.

“One, two, three-”

They spun and the gazes of the other students began to melt away.

“One, two, three-”

His eyes slid out of focus as he gave his attention to her soft count and the careful movement of his feet. The tension left his shoulders and he relaxed. The simple dance filled his mind, only allowing room for the faint touch of cinnamon.

“One, two, th…”

His strange trance was broken when Fleur’s count faltered. His vision snapped back into focus to find her staring at him, wide-eyed. He cursed himself, hoping he hadn’t stepped on her foot too hard while he hadn’t been paying attention. 

After a moment, he picked up where she left off. The music hung in the air among the whispers and quiet conversation of the onlookers. Despite her wide-eyed stare, Fleur still followed his gentle prompting, turning as they moved across the floor.

“One, two, three-”

Step forward, then right. Don’t step on her toes.

“One, two, three.”

The song drifted away, ended by a smattering of applause from the assembled students. Harry echoed a sigh of relief from Fleur, glad to be finished with his requirement for the ball. It hadn’t been as bad as he had feared it would be, if only he hadn’t…

He snuck a glance over at Fleur and jumped a little in surprise when he found her staring at him with that same curious gaze from the World Cup months ago. He opened his mouth to apologize for whatever he had done when a flood of new dancers moved into the center of the room. Hermione gave a nervous wave as she dragged Neville along behind her, his eyes glazing as he passed Fleur.

“Please feel free to stay with your friends if you would like,” Fleur said, leaning down to be heard over the beginning of an up-tempo rock song. “We were only required to do the first dance together.” She cast her gaze around them to where a small handful of boys had begun to approach. “I do not wish to be the subject of any further attention, be it adoration or ire. I think I will be leaving now.”

“That sounds good to me,” he said. “Er, that is, if you want me to come with you. Hermione will want to dance and I don’t see Ron. If you want to be alone, I don’t mind. Not that you’d need my…” He trailed off as Fleur smiled warmly at him.

“I have spent plenty of time alone, ‘Arry,” she said, giving him strange chills as her accent ran across his name. “Your company would be most welcome.”

She led them through the crowd, ignoring any squawk of surprise or call for her attention with practiced ease. Her hair streamed behind her as she strode on, breaking through the wall of students to the mostly-empty Entry Hall. Krum and his date exited the Great Hall behind them, both striding out the front doors and disappearing down the path to where their ship sat upon the shore of the Black Lake.

Harry and Fleur followed suit, though they stuck nearer to the castle walls, using the building as a windbreak against the winter breeze. Snow dusted the grounds, a thin sheet that still allowed the longer tufts of grass to poke through the top. The stalks of dead grass reached through the blanket of snow like a hand grasping for air, a final rebellious act against the inevitability of the coming winter. Fleur shivered violently and produced her wand, casting a quick warming charm over herself, then Harry. He thanked her, picking up the pace as they passed an amorous couple hidden away in one of the alcoves. By the time they found an unoccupied spot of their own, their faces burned with a mix of embarrassment and the chill air.

The alcove they found had a stone bench sitting inside. Its legs were carved into detailed recreations of griffon’s feet, unweathered by its life out in the elements. The arched stone walls offered welcome shelter from the crisp winter wind and the light snow that fell in easy, gusty sweeps. Fleur shivered again as she sat, mumbling a curse before casting a warming charm on the bench, then herself.

Harry shrugged off his outer robe and offered it to her, vague memories of half-heard forbidden television shows guiding his actions. The wind bit at his exposed skin but everything else was covered by multiple layers and he found paradoxical relief in removing the outermost layer. Fleur accepted his offer with a grateful smile and slung it over her exposed shoulders. Though her dress was beautiful, the thin fabric offered little protection, no matter how it glimmered in the moonlight.

They sat in silence for a time, their breath rising out of the alcove to be carried away on a breeze. Fleur’s gaze was distant, fixed upon the visible portion of the starry sky. Steps crunching on the snow announced the arrival of another couple before they were visible.

“Well,” he said, trying to modulate his voice to sound as normal as he could manage. “That wasn’t quite as bad as I expected it to be.”

“No. It was not.”

Her voice was as distant as her thoughts and the fledgling conversation slipped away.

The snow redoubled its attempts to blanket the grounds, muffling the occasional drifting sounds from inside the castle. He glanced over to Fleur and found her gaze upon the falling snow.

“Sorry if I stepped on your foot in there,” he tried again.

His comment grabbed her attention and she turned to him. 

“You did not,” she said. “Not even once.” She considered him for a moment before turning back to face the snow. “I was surprised by something. That is all. You did not step on my foot.” A cloud of steam left her parted lips as she let out a sigh that mingled with the occasional stray snowflake that dropped into their alcove. “I had a good time too. I would never have expected to be able to enjoy myself at a ball like that, no matter how briefly. Thank you for coming with me.”

“I should be the one saying thanks,” he said, rubbing his hands together as an excuse to look away from her intense eye-contact. “I wasn’t looking forward to asking someone to the ball.”

“Surely it would not be difficult for you to find someone to go with.”

“People want to go with the Boy-Who-Lived, not with me,” he answered, his voice quiet.

“Ah. I see.” She paused a moment before speaking again. “It seems as though you quite like dancing,” she observed, her blue eyes still focused on him. The snow had slowed its descent, leaving a pristine blanket across the courtyard in front of them.

He nodded, his mouth turning up in a small smile. “It’s sort of fun. I like it when there are steps and rules you can memorize. It makes it hard to mess up. Plus,” he added, fighting through the embarrassment growing inside him, “it’s nice to get lost in the music…a bit.”

She shifted on the bench and stood, holding a hand out to him.

“Once more?”

He stood and took the offered hand, watching as she drew her wand yet again and bounced it three times in the air. 

“ _ Melodiam Stabilis.” _ With the final bounce of her wand, the whistle of the wind shifted into a gentle three-beat song.

They spun to the tempo of the wind, the light snow swirling around them as they moved. Harry’s cloak billowed out behind Fleur as she spun, though if she noticed the chill wind on her exposed legs and torso, she didn’t show it. Their second dance was shorter than the first, the wind tapering away to noise rather than finish its song. They stopped moving and Harry stepped back, his hands going instantly cold for the lack of the warmth from her waist and hand.

She stood still in the lazy snowfall, the snowflakes melting the moment they touched her hair or skin. Moonlight reflected off the new-fallen snow, casting a glimmering light across her dress, and making her hair glow with its luminescent light. He blinked, noting with surprise that she stared back at him, nervously chewing on her lip.

He frowned. “What’s wr-”

“I could sense you,” she said, her words tumbling from her mouth to fall flat on the silent grounds around them. “During our dance, that is what surprised me. Every time I have seen you, my abilities slid off of you, but for a moment in there…I could sense you.”

His thoughts stumbled over one another as he fought the urge to recoil. Even through the hazy fear of vulnerability, he knew such a thing would hurt her. “But I didn’t…” he tried, whetting his dry mouth. “My mind didn’t go all fuzzy. I didn’t start to act strange.”

“No…no you did not,” she said, the corners of her mouth turning up in a smile. “Even when my allure could latch on to you, it still could not turn your attention to me.”

He shrugged, trying and failing to plaster a smile on his face. “I was pretty focused on making sure I was dancing right.”

“But you should not have been able to,” she said, her smile growing wider, more excited. “There are grown wizards who work in the government that are less accomplished at keeping my allure at bay than you are, and none that I have met can then ignore it when not shielding themselves.”

There was nothing to say. Through the tumult inside of his mind and the fear that she could sense it all, he could not find any words.

She straightened, her enthusiasm breaking against his frozen wall. 

“I…I am sorry, ‘Arry.” Her eyes shone wet in the moonlight as she wrapped her arms around her middle. “I promise you that I have not lied to you. I could not sense you before and I have never encountered anything such as this.” Her speech grew rapid and her accent thickened. “I could tell you did not like the idea, so I did not wish to keep it from you. I did not want to lose-” she hesitated, her voice wavering. She took in a breath and let it out slowly, the mist rising on the frozen breeze.

He trudged through the molasses of his mind. His thoughts were a mess, his heart beat against his chest in what felt like an escape attempt. Inside the prison that his secret had built inside him, he raged at himself.

She couldn’t read his mind. And she could only read his emotions for one small moment. But most importantly, she had told him the truth. There were precious few that he trusted to do that and half as many who did so on purpose. He could fight through the fear and phantom pains to reassure her. To say anything.

“I am sorry,” she repeated, her voice no longer tremulous, but flat. “I had hoped that what I am would not-”

“It’s okay,” he managed, his words alien to his ears. “I don’t…It’s not your fault.”

Her mouth snapped shut and she stared at him, her arms dropping to her side.

“You can’t…sense me now?”

She shook her head, her hair swaying behind her with the motion. “I promise that I will tell you the moment it happens again.”

“Thanks,” he said, blowing out a shaky breath that fogged his glasses. “I’m sorry I…It’s a little…”

“It is okay. I am aware of how I am an…invasion of privacy.”

He frowned up at her, his glasses slowly clearing. “It’s not your fault,” he repeated. “It’s not like you…turned it on, or something. Did you?”

“No,” she said with a small smile. “I would give anything to control my abilities.”

She lifted her hands, frowning at them for a moment before letting them fall back to her sides. She shivered and produced her wand, waving over herself, then again over the cloak which she handed back to him once she had finished. Wisps of steam rose from her exposed skin, casting her in reflected ethereal moonlight. She smiled at him and motioned for him to follow her as she turned toward the entrance to the school.

They walked without speaking, their footfalls crunching in the ankle-deep snow. It wasn’t until the din of the ball-goers had become audible that Fleur breached the silence.

“I had a nice time,” she said. “Worrying you not-withstanding, of course.”

“I did too. And, er…same, I suppose. Sorry.”

“I grew used to people being either afraid or jealous of me years ago,” she said, her voice still light, but carrying an undertone of steel. “I have experienced far worse reactions than that.”

“That doesn’t seem very fair.”

“No,” she said, stopping as they reached the entrance to the castle. “Which is why I appreciate your understanding, ‘Arry.” She turned to look over her shoulder, where the twinkling lights of the Beauxbatons carriages shone through the persistent snowfall. “I believe I shall retire for the evening,” she said, turning back to him. “Social gatherings are…tiring, no matter the company.”

He nodded his agreement, though he had expected to feel a much greater sense of relief once he had been finished for the night.

“Thank you for a wonderful night,” she said. “When I heard of this event, I had expected to loathe it. I am glad to have been wrong.”

“Me too,” was all he could manage. 

In the light that spilled out from the castle, he could see snowflakes melting as they hit her shoulders and face, one vanishing as it fell upon her lips. He swallowed and focused on her forehead, not trusting himself to stare at her any longer.

“Good night, ‘Arry.”

“Good night,” he said, and watched, rooted to the spot, as she returned to the carriages. A sharp wind pushed him through the doors and into the relative warmth of the castle. The fire in the common room called to him.

It was a long walk back to Gryffindor Tower but at least it gave him the opportunity to remember how to think.

~~XxX~~

_ Maman, _

_ Something happened at the ball last night, and I wanted to know if it was something you may have encountered before. _

_ You remember when I told you Harry was unaffected by the allure? During the ball, while we were dancing, I could suddenly sense him. And yet, it still did not latch on to him. I was so surprised that I nearly stepped on his toes, and when he noticed, it vanished. _

_ Any ideas? _

_ Love, _

_ F _

_ Merry Christmas! _

Apolline Delacour dropped her daughter’s letter on the table next to her and breathed out a slow sigh. What she wouldn’t give for Sebastian to be home more often for things like this. Every letter Fleur had sent her since she had arrived at Hogwarts had some mention of Harry Potter in them. Apolline wasn’t surprised in the least by her daughter’s excitement at finding a peer that was unaffected by their Veela abilities. She remembered the multitude of letters she had sent home from Beauxbatons herself when she had first experienced the same. Though, she hadn’t had to see that same friend burned near to death in some ridiculous tournament. 

She shook her head, attempting to dispel the images Fleur’s letter had painted for her. It was no wonder her daughter had been so distressed.

She re-read the short letter before considering her answer. Sure, there had been a handful of people with immunity to her abilities, though most had been Occlumens like Sebastian. She doubted Harry was a fourteen-year-old Occlumens. She thought back to the stories she vaguely remembered at her mother’s side, only heard with the scattered attention of a child. Perhaps something could have happened to Harry on that fateful night, so many years ago?

She shook her head and sighed. If she tried to speculate, Fleur would never give Harry a moment’s rest. She slipped from the dining room into Sebastian’s often unused office and penned her reply from behind his massive mahogany desk.

_ Fleur, _

_ In your other letters, you at least pretended to care about how I was doing before you told me about Harry. Not even a pretense anymore? _

_ I’m joking, of course. I know full well how special it is to have someone you can be genuine with. _

_ As to your question, I have met a few people that have been unaffected by the Veela Charm but none that happened quite as you described. _

Apolline paused in her writing, leaning against the padded back of the chair. She didn’t want to mislead her daughter but she also didn’t want to caution her and poke the fires of Fleur’s curiosity with vague warnings. Making up her mind, she leaned forward to finish.

_ I am sorry that I’m unable to help you with this. I don’t expect that I need to tell you to treasure this friendship and don’t let your desire to understand the ‘why’ of his immunity get in the way of enjoying your time together. _

_ Love always, _

_ -A _


	8. Preparations

**Chapter 8: Preparations**

Fleur crumpled her mother’s letter and tossed it onto her bed where it was lost among the mountainous pile of thick blankets. Between the thinly veiled ‘leave it be’ and the antiquated ‘Veela Charm’ phrase her mother insisted on using, Fleur almost wished she had never written the letter in the first place. Pacing her room had done little to calm her irritation. She knew her mother’s letter only made her angry because she was right, though the knowledge did nothing to help her settle down.

The odd evening of the Yule Ball consumed her thoughts and had turned her into a recluse for the final days of the year. At least that was what she told herself. It had been the fear frozen on his features that kept her up at night. The fear of what she was and what she could do. But he had said it was okay and had seemed to mean it.

She flopped back down on the bed, letting the same anxious worries fly through her mind as they had done most days. How could she, a Triwizard Champion, be so worried about something one person thought of her?

Her thoughts drifted to her mother’s letter, and she groaned aloud. 

Her mother was right. She had been so excited to have a friend.

She fell backward, sinking into the thick duvet. It was clear what she needed to do.

If she wanted to know what Harry actually thought of her and what she could do, she would need to talk to him about it. 

If he even wanted to talk to her.

With a frustrated growl, she flung herself upright and snatched her heavy winter cloak from where it lay on the bed next to her. She had wasted too much time worrying. It was time to do something about it.

She flung her cloak over her shoulders and warmed it with an experienced wave of her wand. The Hogwarts students had weekends where they were allowed down in that nearby village. Maybe she could ask him to meet her there. She put on her thickest boots for trudging through the ankle-deep snow, and set out, determined.

She wandered the chilly castle for what felt like ages. The calls for her attention grew tiresome and her feet grew sore. How she missed the warm, carpeted rooms of Beauxbâtons. With quick steps, she turned down another hall, escaping one particularly dogged boy that had begun to shout as she moved out of sight.

She shook her head. What had she been thinking? Wandering the entire castle to find one person? Idiot.

Cursing her single-mindedness, she admitted defeat and spun on her heel. If she ever made it out of this maze of a building, she would just have to send him another letter.

~~XxX~~

An insistent tapping on his window made Harry look up from his reading. He was grateful for the distraction. Three other books lay strewn at his feet across the bed, each open to a different page. It was a wonder he and Hermione hadn’t come up with anything to help him navigate the Black Lake.

He swung open the window to let the owl inside and stared as a second followed close behind. Both offered him their legs and he took the small letters, shutting the window after the birds took flight into the evening sky. The first held his initials in loopy writing on the front.

_ Harry, _

_ I was hoping we could meet again sometime soon. I would like to continue to get to know you, and I think it might be far easier when it is just the two of us, rather than in the middle of a huge event like the Yule Ball. Would you be willing to meet me in Hogsmeade? Perhaps there is a secluded room where I will not be in danger of ensnaring others with my allure? _

_ I hope to hear from you soon, _

_ Fleur _

Though short, her letter had still somehow managed to send his stomach into wild acrobatics. Their evening together lingered on his mind. Depending on his mood, it was either her glowing beauty in the falling snow or the unabated fear of discovery. He set it aside and opened the second letter.

_ Moony’s house. One hour. _

He almost dropped the note in shock. Sirius had made it back already?

Elation rose inside of him alongside a similar level of guilt. Sirius had been in far less danger when he was hiding out…wherever it was that he had been. But it would be good to see his godfather again. He tossed the note on the bed and dropped facedown next to it. Sirius wouldn’t be coming back if he hadn’t managed to get tangled in that blasted tournament. A few burns weren’t worth risking a short lifetime with dementors.

Maybe he’d be able to see Sirius and convince him to go back into hiding. It would be easier once his godfather saw that he was okay. 

He got up and stepped over to his trunk, pulling out a blank piece of parchment and his quill.

_ Fleur, _

_ Hogsmeade sounds good. We can probably go to a place called The Hog’s Head. It’s usually pretty empty. We can meet in front of Honeydukes and I can show you where it is. _

_ See you then, _

_ -Harry _

He piled the books onto his nightstand and grabbed his invisibility cloak along with the Marauder’s map. He still had time to run to the owlery before meeting up with Sirius. It might be an extremely short flight but Hedwig would be glad for something to do. As he climbed through the portrait hole and sped to send his reply, he found himself more and more excited the closer he got to finally seeing his godfather again.

~~XxX~~

“There you are!” Sirius’s raspy greeting made Harry jump as he closed the rickety door to the Shrieking Shack behind him. He spun to find his godfather grinning from a ratty chair in the corner of the room.

His smile lifted sunken cheeks and wrinkled the corners of dark haunted eyes. Dark, wild hair stuck up in almost every direction, an unintentional fashion mirrored by his tangled mess of a beard.

“Hello to you too,” Harry replied, dropping into a wooden chair that sat opposite his godfather.

“Sorry. When you’re alone for so long, it becomes easy to forget the niceties of conversation.” He shrugged, lifting bony shoulders. “But that’s not a good excuse. How are you? You don’t look burnt to a crisp.”

“Better,” he said, flexing his left hand. Even the wrinkles on his knuckles had returned. “Seems like they did a pretty good job fixing me up.”

Sirius nodded, scratching at his scraggly beard. “How’re you holding up otherwise? With all the tournament stuff?”

Harry shifted in his seat, instinctually hiding his first answer. The true answer.

“I’m fine. The First Task is done. Only two to go. I had to go to the Ball, but it wasn’t so bad really…” he trailed off as a mischievous smile lit upon Sirius’s face, shedding years from his visage.

“I read about that,” he said, still grinning. “The articles say you went with the Beauxbâtons champion. A Veela.” He winked.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Supposedly I’m immune to her allure, so she asked me to the Ball.”

Sirius’s smile faded a bit. “That’s unusual. Most of the time you have to know Occlumency to ignore it like that.”

“So I’ve heard. But what about you? How have you been? I’m not the one who’s been in hiding for a year.”

“Just fine,” Sirius said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s kind of nice being back, despite the danger. A bit like laughing at the Ministry’s face.”

“But why are you back?” Harry asked. “You can’t do the tasks with me or anything.”

“No-” Sirius said, his expression souring. “No, I can’t. I might be able to help you with some ideas though. I’m actually back to help Dumbledore figure out why you’re in the tournament in the first place.”

“Dumbledore had you come back?!”

“Not exactly…He was actually pretty upset when I showed up. He said he and Moody have it under control. He relented a little when I pointed out they hadn’t made much headway at all. Dumbledore isn’t entirely convinced that there’s someone pulling evil strings here. Moody thinks there is but Moody’s always paranoid.”

“He thinks I put my name in?” Harry asked, dumbfounded. “I told him I hadn’t.”

“He won’t say what he thinks,” Sirius said. “But I’m inclined to agree with Moody.

“Call me paranoid but let’s say that the enchantments on the Goblet of Fire, an artifact that’s been around for hundreds and hundreds of years, are failing. And nobody has noticed. Let’s say that the blasted thing spit out a name at random. The chances of those things happening, and your name being the one to come out, are astronomically small. I think it’s dangerously naive to say your entry into the Tournament is simply an error. You, who have now been in life-threatening danger every single year since you started at Hogwarts.” 

He took a deep breath, calming the vehemence that had seeped into his tone.

“I have half a mind to pack you up and move you to Beauxbâtons once I’m cleared.” He made placating gestures at the naked shock that crossed Harry’s features as he finished. “I won’t, I won’t. I promise. I’m just frustrated for you and I needed to help.”

“But you shouldn’t have-”

“Shouldn’t have what?” Sirius cut in, his dark eyes alight with repressed emotion. “Shouldn’t have come back to help you through this? Bollocks. I’ve already failed you more times than I care to count. My recklessness almost got you kissed by those dementors by the lake. If it hadn’t been for Dumbledore, we’d both be dead because of me. I’m not about to spend my life as a dog somewhere while you risk your life. Not happening.”

Sirius dropped back into his chair, spent after having come near to standing during his tirade.

“What am I supposed to do?” Harry managed, finding his voice unacceptably brittle. “The First Task almost did me in, and there are two left!” The words poured out of him in a torrent. “For the second one, I’ve got to go find something in the Black Lake! I’ve got to learn how to breathe underwater in less than two months!” He ran a hand through his hair. “I almost died. And I’ve got to do it two more times. How am I supposed to manage it?”

Sirius slumped. “You’ve only got to survive. According to Dumbledore, you’re required to participate, so there’s no sitting on the sidelines waiting for the other champions to finish. Otherwise, that’s what you’d be doing.” 

He paused and offered Harry a halfhearted smile. “You could always win the damn thing.”

Harry barked out a laugh he didn’t feel and let his shoulders slump, the tension bleeding from him, leaving him hollow. “I guess. Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. The situation you’re in is unacceptable but there’s nothing we can do about it. So, one of the things I’ll be trying to do is track Peter down. Dumbledore has intel that he’s back in the country. If I can get him, I can get cleared and I won’t have to help you from the shadows anymore.”

Harry let his features slide into placidity at the mention of the man who had helped ruin his life twice over. Pettigrew and Voldemort both had a near-to-equal hand in securing his miserable life with the Dursleys. He pushed the rage down deep. No need to let Sirius know he was upset. Besides, if Pettigrew was captured, he would finally get to move away from his relatives to live with Sirius.

“You alright?” Sirius asked.

It seemed he hadn’t been quick enough at smothering his anger.

“I’m fine. There’s just a lot going on. It’s a lot to figure out.” He forced those feelings even deeper and plastered a small smile on his face. “So, where were you staying?”

“A beach on the Mediterranean,” Sirius said, perking up. “As a dog, mind you, but it was still nice, even if I couldn’t enjoy the sunsets. Except for this one time-”

He regaled Harry of his adventures as a dog, and his difficulties staying up to date with what was going on in magical Britain. Harry made sure to be appropriately shocked during his retelling of an intense pursuit by a butcher for the theft of some high-dollar pork cuts. 

The evening wore into night and he grew more engrossed with each one of his godfather’s dramatic stories. It was almost enough to make him forget about Peter and the tournament.

Almost.

~~XxX~~

The main thoroughfare of Hogsmeade was filled with students, even with the frigid January air and light snow. They bustled from shop to shop, often holding steaming cups of tea or Madam Rosmerta’s new Firecider, her new non-alcoholic alternative to firewhiskey. Harry wished for a mug of his own, even if to stave off the cold from his icy fingers. 

He rubbed his hands together and blew on them, his foggy breath seeping through the thin too-large gloves he’d grabbed from the bottom of his trunk. As he did almost every winter, he made a mental note to check Hogsmeade for a clothing shop, even if just to get new gloves and a cap. A wind blew a stark reminder across his bare ears, and it carried with it the friendly hum of conversation all around him.

He found himself regretting his choice of meeting locations as a line began to form to get into the cramped shop. Couples made their way through the sweets shop, perusing the shelves hand in hand. One such pair wandered up, two seventh-years that were far too busy staring at each other to notice they had stopped directly in front of Harry. He fought down an odd mix of annoyance and loneliness as the girl went up onto her toes to kiss her boyfriend on the cheek.

He stepped around them and moved over to the other side of the storefront, next to an alley that ran between it and Scrivenshafts next door. It should have been easy to be irritated with couples like that, but he found himself simply jealous instead.

The wind picked up, this time carrying with it shouts and calls distinctly at odds with the normal conversation that buzzed around him. He craned his neck to see the source of the commotion and found a flash of silver hair blowing in the breeze. She strode ahead of a forming crowd, each person calling to her, the occasional hand reaching toward her.

She noticed him as she neared, and he could see the small empty smile resting below pleading eyes. It shifted to one of relief as he raised a hand. An idea had taken vague shape in his mind and he waved her over. She diverted from the middle of the street, her following admirers close behind. He stared at them as she approached. It was impossible to miss the glassy eyes and occasional calls for attention that her allure usually engendered but it had never been anything so…significant.

He fumbled a frozen hand into his robes and extracted his invisibility cloak. He nodded his head to the alley next to him. Once he saw her confused acknowledgment and she drew near, he held the invisibility cloak out to her.

She didn’t say anything as she grabbed the cloak from his outstretched hand and continued down the narrow alley, the breeze from her passing carrying the now-familiar scent of cinnamon. A moment later he was jostled out of the way as the crowd tried to cram themselves into the alley, their shouts mingling with grunts as they bumped into each other.

Abruptly, much to Harry’s complete surprise, the mob stopped moving and stood still for a moment, blinking at each other. They began to disperse amongst murmurs of ‘pardon me’ and ‘bugger off’. After the majority of Fleur’s followers left, Harry slipped down the alley and out of sight.

A few steps down a smaller alley that ran behind Honeydukes a muffled sob arose from near to the ground. His gaze followed a pair of footprints over to where they stopped near a wall.

He wasn’t often on the other side of his cloak and had to admit, if he hadn’t known what to look for, he would never have known she was there were it not for the soft sounds of crying. The invisibility was perfect, and he couldn’t even see a ripple to give her away but he could see the indents in the snow where she was sitting with her feet pulled close.

“Fleur?” he asked the empty air.

A loud sniff answered him before her watery voice floated up from where she sat. “What is this?” she asked, her voice fragile.

“It’s my invisibility cloak.”

“No simple invisibility cloak does what yours just did.”

“I don’t know much about it,” he answered, shrugging. “It was my father’s. I’ve never even seen another one, so I can’t really compare.”

He heard the crunch of snow as she shifted, a handprint appearing next to where she had been sitting. She sniffled again and let out a long breath. He stared in the general direction of the noise, finding it odd to talk to someone he couldn’t see.

“A family heirloom…” she muttered. 

He didn’t reply. She undoubtedly knew the story of the Boy-Who-Lived, and he suspected she would know how much his father’s cloak meant to him. 

“I suppose it would be too much to ask to borrow it from time to time,” she asked, though he could tell she didn’t have high hopes for her request.

“Maybe…depends what for.”

“For this,” she answered, some of her melancholy fading to wonder. “’Arry, I am quite good at the disillusionment charm. I am sure I do not need to explain why I would prefer to be unseen at times.” He could only nod, her rapid speech leaving no room for comment. “I am, unfortunately, still not proficient enough to hide fully when my allure is at its strongest. I have never gone from so many affected people to complete anonymity so suddenly.”

She paused a moment and he heard a rustling of fabric.

“Can you really not see me at all?” she asked. The rustling grew louder and he smiled. She was probably waving at him, as was most people’s first experiment when testing their newfound invisibility.

“Not even a ripple in the air,” he answered, cognizant of the fact he appeared to be standing in an alley, talking to no-one, like a lunatic. 

Ron and Hermione deserved an apology for years of similar treatment. 

The two of them needed to go to the Hog’s Head and get out of the cold but…there was no way they could go without her staying invisible the entire time, and he didn’t fancy looking as though he were talking to himself in the dingy pub.

Fleur’s playful voice cut through his thoughts, garnering a smile. “What about this?” she asked.

He grinned at the unexpected side of his new friend. Footsteps twirled through the snow in a circle around him and he turned to match her. They stopped a moment later.

“I can see your footsteps,” he explained, pointing to the ground. 

Years of experience with the cloak taught him that winter was its weakest season as both the snow on the ground and the silhouette created when it fell were dead giveaways for the wearer.

“I see…” She paused for a moment before speaking again. “Could I keep it on for a little while longer? I do not think we can go to the inn today, not with…well, not with so many people.”

“The classrooms are mostly deserted on the weekends,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “We can probably find one.”

“So long as it has a fireplace, that sounds perfect,” she said, a shiver rolling through her words.

He turned and led her back out to the crowded street, trying to take the least congested route he could find. The cloak couldn’t do its job properly if she got constantly bumped around. His methods were effective, and he wouldn’t have known she was still there were it not for her quiet pleased giggles every time someone came near without noticing her. 

Another giggle brought a smile of his own to his face. He couldn’t help but feel uniquely privileged to discover such a different side to Fleur as the one that had worn her impersonal, empty smile.

He led her through the crowd, finally able to stop weaving through people as they drew nearer to the castle. They trudged through the packed snow up the path to the castle, the only sign that she was still behind him being the crunch of her feet out of time with his own. He stomped the snow off his boots once they made it into the entryway, using the cobbles on the steps to make sure his boots were snow-free. No need to give Mrs. Norris or Filch a reason to follow them.

They found a suitable room on the second floor. Rather than a classroom, it appeared to be an unused office. A fireplace sat at the back of the smaller room, a couple of split logs resting on the andiron set inside the stone hearth. 

Harry waited for her quiet, “I’m inside,” before closing the door to the room. As the door clicked shut, a fire sprang to life in the hearth, heating the chilly room with its tall flames. He stood for a moment, immobilized by the fog formed on his glasses. They cleared slowly, exposing a still-empty room.

“Er…Fleur…”

“What?” 

Her reply came from just next to him on his left, causing him to jump in surprise. 

“Oh…yes,” she said with a sigh.

The air next to him shimmered as she removed the cloak, her dark blue winter robes becoming visible from the bottom first as she pulled it over her head. She ran a hand through her hair once she was free of the garment in an attempt to detach it from the robe.

He laughed as he took it back. 

“It’s clingy, I know,” he said, watching as she attempted to cajole her long hair back into its normal, smooth state. 

Single strands of its silvery length stuck out into the warm air.

“More trouble than it is worth sometimes,” she grumbled, pulling a long length of black ribbon from her robes. She tied it in a bow at the base of her neck, forming a long loose ponytail.

He stuffed the cloak back into his robes, aware that he was staring. The very thing she had been so keen to avoid.

“That is amazing,” she said, pulling a chair near to the roaring fire. “I have never seen another like it. It was your father’s?”

He nodded, relaxing a little now the heirloom was back in his possession. “Why were all those people after you?” he asked in an attempt to change the subject. Questions about his parents almost inevitably led to similar questions about his current living situation. “It was way more than usual.”

“It was the allure,” she answered, irritated. “As it always is. Sometimes it is weaker, sometimes it is stronger.”

Sensing treacherous territory, he clamped down on the rest of his questions, offering her time to relax. A log in the fireplace popped, spewing a handful of sparks onto the stone mantle. She stared at the fading embers.

“I have never been so completely invisible,” she said, the last word a breathy whisper. “Everywhere I go, no matter what I do, there are eyes on me. Always. I am either alone, or I am watched.” She sighed. “Except around my family,” she amended, a sad smile curving her lips. “My sister will experience it soon.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

She looked up from the mantle, her blue eyes reflecting the firelight. “Gabrielle is twelve, and has been my only friend since she was old enough to talk.” Her eyes widened and she blushed. “Ah. Until recently, that is. I am sorry.” 

She pushed a stray hair away from the side of her face, tucking it behind an ear. 

“They will be here to see the Second Task. I cannot wait for them to arrive. This was my first Christmas away from home. I had to promise I would be there next year.”

“I bet they’ll be glad to see you,” he said.

“Is your family coming?” she asked, the inevitable question making him tense beneath his robes.

“No. They’re not.”

“Oh, that is a shame.”

“They don’t like magic much,” he said, launching into his usual explanation that he had learned would prevent further questions. 

He fought against the downward spiral mention of the Dursleys often had on his mood. 

“I live with my aunt and uncle. They’re muggles.” 

She simply nodded, perhaps sensing the delicate topic. He hoped not. 

“So why did you want to meet?”

“I…” She faltered, her gaze dropping to her lap where her hands fiddled with the end of her ponytail. “I realized our evening during the Yule Ball was made awkward by my abilities, and I did not want to leave it at that for too long. I was not joking about wanting to be friends. Part of being friends is spending time together.” She forced her hands still. “I was thinking…if it would make you more comfortable, I can let you know the moment it happens. If it happens again.”

Her words sank slowly through his mind as he tried to wrestle with his conflicting feelings. His mouth twitched in an attempt at a smile. It was probably a good thing she couldn’t feel the utter mess that was his emotions. It wouldn’t do to burden a new friend with what had to be a maelstrom coming from him.

“That’s…good,” he managed through the still-hazy worries in his mind. No matter how he examined the thoughts, they didn’t make sense. How could she discern his secrets from his emotions of all things? But no matter how much scrutiny the fears were placed under, they persisted.

She smiled at his tentative reply and nodded. “I want you to be comfortable, and that was all I could come up with.”

“It’s just…not something I’m used to,” he said, trying to be delicate. “It may never happen again.”

“That is true,” she said, again chewing at her lip. “I…I do not know what else to say. I want to enjoy our time together but I do not know what to talk about.”

“Well…” he trailed off. Small talk had never been his strong suit. “What about your sister? Does she go to Beauxbâtons too?”

Fleur nodded, a wide smile parting the anxiety that had covered her perfect features. “She does, and she is incredible. Top of her class the last two years…”

~~XxX~~

Gabrielle sailed through the air, impacting on Fleur’s messy bed and rebounding into the air. She rolled over once she settled and sat up. “It’s so small!”

Fleur smiled down at her sister and nodded. She had been a bundle of energy ever since arriving by Floo in Headmaster Dumbledore’s office and the walk to the Beauxbâtons carriages had done little to dispel her energy. Fleur suspected that was the real reason their mother had begged off to the guest cabins after leaving the castle, or one of the reasons, anyway.

“It’s not that small,” she said, dropping down onto the bed beside her sister.

“It’s smaller than the dorms at school and much smaller than your special room.”

“That is true,” she said.

“Deputy Headmistress Gardinier said that I’ll get my own room next year,” Gabrielle said, grinning. “Probably yours, since you’ll be graduating.”

“Is that so?”

“I can’t wait! No more of Mirabelle’s dreadful snoring.”

“The private rooms certainly have their perks,” Fleur said, affecting nonchalance. 

She mentally thanked her mother for the letter she had sent ahead of their arrival. Gabrielle had recently received ‘the talk’ about being Veela and everything it entailed. Her younger sister had danced around the topic already during their walk and had confided in Fleur that she had only paid partial attention to their well-meaning but occasionally overbearing mother.

Much as Fleur herself had done years before.

“They have four houses here,” she said instead. Gabrielle would bring it up if she wanted to. “There are separate dorms for each year, split into boys and girls.”

“Which one is Harry in?”

Fleur let out a quiet sigh. She should have expected as much. Gabrielle had mentioned wanting to meet him in her last letter but she hadn’t had a chance to say anything to Harry since receiving it. She suspected he was busy preparing for the Second Task much as she had been.

“Gryffindor.”

“And when will we see him?”

“After the Second Task, I expect,” Fleur said, her sister’s boundless energy already wearing on her. “I imagine that he is busy preparing.”

“That makes sense…” Gabrielle trailed off, looking around the admittedly small quarters. “Where did Papa go?”

“Headmaster Dumbledore asked him to stay behind.” She might have reprimanded her sister for her lack of attention but she had been firmly attached to Fleur’s waist at the time, lamenting her lonely Christmas.

~~XxX~~

The door clicked shut behind his family and Sebastian Delacour slumped into the conjured chair offered to him.

“I will not keep you for long, Ambassador. I was simply hoping for an update on my request.” Dumbledore lowered himself down into his ornate chair behind his desk and let out a long sigh. “I doubt it has been easy for you.”

Sebastian shook his head and rubbed at the corners of his eyes. “We haven’t had much success at either venture,” he said. “Pettigrew continues to elude us, though he hasn’t made contact with any of the Death Eaters we have under surveillance. Either he’s deep underground or managed to flee the country.

“We’ve had slightly more success with the mystery Death Eaters from the World Cup. We know, unofficially, that Malfoy’s group were the instigators and the ones that cast the first Dark Mark. They weren’t, however, the ones who killed Ashye…They weren’t the ones who killed her and took Mariika’s wand. As far as we were able to discern, they kept the wand. We haven’t been able to narrow down the list of suspects. All of Voldemort’s followers that were so brutal are either dead or in Azkaban.”

“It is progress, at least,” Dumbledore said, his eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. “I would ask you to focus your efforts on locating and apprehending Peter Pettigrew. There have been some developments that make his capture a priority.” He rose from his seat and stepped around his desk. “I apologize for asking this of you when I know your transition into the Ambassadorship has not been as effortless as it should be. Please know that I would not ask were it not vitally important.”

Sebastian scoffed. “It’s been something alright.” He grunted as he pushed himself out of his chair, grimacing at the noise. He sounded like his father. “Fudge and his team have been efficient in blocking my inquiries on behalf of the ICW. I’ll say one thing for him, he knows how to keep the loyalists close, no matter how overzealous they are.”

“Yes, he has surrounded himself with some rather intense individuals. I hope none of them will be too problematic.”

“You and me both,” Sebastian grumbled, allowing himself to be led to the office door.

“I will not keep you from your family any longer. Thank you for your time and your excellent efforts on our behalf.”

“Ah. Thank you, sir.” Sebastian straightened as he spoke. 

Years in government work had taught him to avoid being star-struck by high-ranking officials, but being paid a direct compliment from Albus Dumbledore was another thing entirely. He couldn’t help but preen a little.

Reinvigorated by the opportunity to see his eldest daughter for the first time in too many months, he followed Dumbledore’s directions down to the carriages.

“Papa!” Gabrielle’s excited shout rang through the room the moment he opened the door. Fleur spun to face him, a wide smile on her features. She crossed the room in two quick steps and into a hug.

“It is so good to see you,” he said, giving her a squeeze for emphasis. “We were sick with worry after hearing about the First Task.”

She pulled away, offering a wan smile. “I was fortunate I could use one aspect of my abilities to calm the beast. I am not so lucky for the Second Task.”

“What is it?” Gabrielle asked from her place on the bed.

“I have to retrieve something special to me from the bottom of the lake.”

“That stinks,” she commented brightly. “What is it?”

“I don’t know yet. They didn’t tell us.”

“I think they’re going to ask us about it,” her father said, nodding to Gabrielle. “Madame Maxime has asked us for a short interview later tonight.” He looked back to Fleur. “So you had better go see your mother. She wanted to talk with you before, but wasn’t quite up to being outside for longer than she had to be.”

Fleur nodded, catching the implication. Gabrielle, however, was completely oblivious. “She should have just come with us. She seemed fine on the way here.”

“Well, maybe,” Sebastian said, fixing her with ‘the look,’ “if you listened more than you spoke, you would know what we are talking about.”

Gabrielle groaned at the admonition and flopped back onto the bed. It was a common phrase for her, though more often in jest than a serious rebuke. Fleur found herself agreeing with her father though. It would seem her sister had told the truth when she said she hadn’t been listening. She groaned inwardly, sure her mother would ask her to speak to Gabrielle.

“You had better get going,” her father said, his tone serious. She frowned. It must be important if it couldn’t wait until they had spent a little more time together.

An unhappy groan sounded from the bed.

“Gabrielle and I are going to explore the grounds a little while the sun is still out. Isn’t that right?”

“Take an extra cloak,” Fleur advised her sister. “These Scottish winters are terrible.” She had grown a little more accustomed to the chill during her time at Hogwarts but she had never fully gotten used to the cold, even back home.

~~XxX~~

“Fleur! Oh, Fleur!” Her mother barreled into her, arms wrapping tightly around her in a firm hug. “It is so good to see you well.”

“It’s good to see you too, Maman,” Fleur said, stepping back from the tight embrace. “I’m whole, as you can see.”

“Even so, we were heartsick when we heard. How is Harry doing?”

Fleur felt the blood leave her face as images of his charred body intruded into her thoughts, charred skin, and exposed muscle filling the tent with a horrid stench. She tried to focus on her mother instead. 

“He’s well. Busy practicing, I assume.”

“As you have been, I expect.” Apolline stood back and crossed her arms, her expression hardening. 

“What’s your plan?”

“Bubble-head charm.”

“Show me.”

Fleur rolled her eyes and dutifully produced her wand. Her mother had always been too serious when she was worried but the knowledge didn’t make it any less grating. With a wave, a bubble sprang into existence around her head, blocking the ambient noise from the wind blowing across the carriage.

“Well done,” Apolline said, inspecting the bubble. She poked at the nebulous surface, smiling in satisfaction when the charm didn’t dissipate at the contact. “Strong structure for a non-verbal cast. Very well done.”

Fleur canceled the spell, smiling at the praise.

“How are you going to account for the cold? You’ll be at an extreme disadvantage.”

“I know I will,” she answered, trying to keep the budding irritation from her reply. “I can cast the warming charm wordlessly as well, though I doubt it will work if I am in there for too long. If I need to, I can draw on my fire.”

Apolline nodded, pursing her lips. “I doubt there is much else you can do.” She hesitated a moment, and Fleur could hear the question before it was asked. “Have you spoken much with your sister?”

She wasn’t entirely successful at suppressing her groan.

“Don’t be like that,” her mother chastised. “You know this is important. It’s going to be an integral part of her life soon, and she’s not taking it seriously. I bet she didn’t even notice the difference in the way people acted when we were at the British Ministry and passing through the castle!”

Fleur winced, unable to deny the accusation. The ups and downs of a mother of two’s allure weren’t as significant as Fleur’s were but they were still plenty noticeable. Either Gabrielle was being extremely obtuse, or she was oblivious.

Her irritation faltered. It was one thing to experience the challenges being Veela brought upon herself, it was entirely another to watch someone she loved step into such a lonely, superficial world.

“I know I need to talk to her,” she finally admitted. “It’s just going to be so…”

“Awkward?”

Fleur chuckled mirthlessly. “Yes, but no. It’s going to be hard.”

Her mother’s stern demeanor softened, her eyes becoming gentle and a little misty. “It is hard,” she said, reaching a hand up to cup Fleur’s cheek.

She closed her eyes and leaned into the contact. Despite how easily her mother could get under her skin, it was nice to be with her again. “I’ll talk to her.” Her trepidation fell far short of her duty to do her best to help her sister grow into her heritage as painlessly as possible.

“Thank you. She’s heard it enough from me and just tunes me out now. It’ll mean more coming from you.”

Fleur offered a wan smile, unsure if she’d prefer the lake or the coming conversation.

~~XxX~~

She found her opportunity to talk to Gabrielle the day before the Second Task. The twenty-third was a cold, snowy day but the tense excitement surrounding the Task had boiled over, and the grounds around the Black Lake were a hive of activity. She and Gabrielle walked the perimeter, stopping to watch Dumbledore and an older stern witch transfigure the viewing benches out of the ground. Cedric Diggory stood at the edge of the water, his gaze planted squarely on the still lake. His date from the ball stood at his side, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Looks cold,” Gabrielle muttered. She pulled her heavy cloak tight around her body.

“It does.” She glanced sidelong at her sister, noting her pensive mood. “You know...Maman wanted me to talk to you.”

“Ugh.” Gabrielle squinted down to where people gathered by the lake. “There are people around. Do we have to? What if they get all…ensnared?”

“Then we will leave but I do not think it will be a problem. We are far enough away. And yes. We have to. You told me didn’t listen to Maman when she was talking to you.”

“I was listening,” she griped, dropping down onto the snow-covered ground and pulling her legs up to her chest. Fleur sat down next to her, moving her cloak to be a barrier between her and the snow.

“You didn’t even notice all the people trying to get Maman’s attention.”

“I saw them. I know why,” Gabrielle mumbled into her legs as she rested her forehead against her knees. Her silver hair shadowed her face, brushing against the snow. “I was listening when she explained how it all works.”

“Then why-”

“Because it’s scary!” Gabrielle burst out. Her head shot up and Fleur saw tears forming in her grey-blue eyes. “You’ve been sending letters about how amazing it is to find just one person you can talk to, and Maman talks about how hard it’s going to be!” Her lower lip began to quiver. “A-and they told me about what happened to you at the Louvre.”

Fleur’s blood ignited, her vision tinted a fiery red. How could they? They were meant to help guide Gabrielle, not traumatize her with fear.

A giggle shook her from her anger. Gabrielle scooted away from her sister, laughing as steam rose from a now dry circle around Fleur. 

“I thought you said you were ‘long past those temperamental changes,’” she teased, wiping her eyes as she quoted a letter Fleur had sent the year before.

“I’m not going to change,” Fleur said stiffly, casting an over-exaggerated glance at her sister, eliciting another giggle.

“Don’t be mad. I don’t want you all angry at each other the whole time we’re here.” Her laugh had turned into a plea and Fleur’s heart broke for it. Gabrielle often acted older than her years should allow but at times she was every bit a scared twelve-year-old.

“I’m not mad,” Fleur said, patting the ground next to her.

“Yes, you are.” Gabrielle stared pointedly at the visible circle of grass.

“Anymore,” she finished, smiling for emphasis. Gabrielle scooted closer and drew her legs up again. “Is there anything you want to know?” Fleur asked after an awkward silence had grown between them.

Gabrielle didn’t answer, her gaze roaming across the bustle of activity by the lake. Fleur was about to ask again when she finally spoke. “What’s it like?”

“Which part?”

“Feeling people,” Gabrielle asked, a touch of wonder mixing into her quiet question.

“Truthfully?”

Gabrielle nodded, expectant.

“It…it was pretty annoying at first,” she said, casting her mind back to when her abilities had fully manifested, not the fitful flashes of sense that had preceded them.

Gabrielle turned her head in surprise.

“It was information about the world I couldn’t understand,” she continued, her eyes unfocused with memory. “Like a constant conversation behind you in a language you don’t understand. Before, when the feeling would come and go, it was just a sudden intense noise, like-”

“-like a train passing by,” Gabrielle finished for her, her voice a whisper.

Fleur’s head snapped over to look at her sister, the realization catching her short of breath.

“Exactly like that. It’s happened for you?”

“A few days ago. It was the first time.”

“It gets better,” Fleur reassured her, though she knew the platitude wouldn’t help much. “Besides, having a sixth sense is pretty cool.”

Gabrielle brightened at Fleur’s words, a little of her melancholy seeping away. Fleur held out an arm, inviting her sister into a seated hug. Gabrielle rocked to the side, falling towards Fleur with her knees still pulled to her chest. She dissolved into giggles when she landed hard against Fleur, eliciting a grunt from her older sister.

Rather than complain about the bruise she already felt forming on her ribs, Fleur dropped her arm around Gabrielle, embracing her. She hoped her sister felt a little more at peace with what lay ahead, and tried to push her anger at her parents to the side, for the time being, content to provide comfort instead.

The scars around her ankles flared with phantom pain that slowly faded away.


	9. The Second Task

**Chapter 9: The Second Task**

It was a good thing that Harry was already numb with dread, else the biting February wind would have chilled him to his core. The bottle of Gillyweed Neville had gotten him was cold in his near-frozen fingers while a shudder rolled up his body in response to a frigid breeze. 

He stood at the end of the short line of champions on the raised platform at the edge of the Black Lake. Fleur stood next to him, her long hair wrapped in a tight bun at the back of her head. She shivered as the wind picked up and rubbed absently at her ankle with the opposite foot. 

She had greeted him with a halfhearted wave when he arrived, and her focus had been on the rippling waters below ever since. Cedric held his wand in one hand, its lightly colored, wooden length trembling while Krum stood impassively on the other end, his vacant gaze locked straight ahead.

Ludo Bagman strode over from the nearby judge’s table, wrapped tightly in layers of heavy cloaks. The warm fabrics taunted Harry as another gust turned his exposed skin to gooseflesh. 

What was to stop him from freezing to death the moment he touched the icy water?

Bagman produced a thick, dark brown wand from inside the many folds surrounding him and pointed it to his throat. He muttered an incantation and stepped between Fleur and Cedric, out to the end of the short platform. He held his arms wide to address the spectators who sat in transfigured stands opposite where the champions stood waiting.

“It is my very great pleasure to announce the beginning of the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament!” His amplified voice filled the frosty air, prompting a surprisingly muted cheer from the other side of the lake. Whether from the distance or a frigid lack of enthusiasm, Harry couldn’t tell. “Each of our four Champions was given a riddle in the form of the golden dragon’s egg.”

Movement from Fleur caught Harry’s eye, and he saw her wave her wand over herself. Faint wisps of steam began to rise from her exposed shoulders, legs, and neck. He cursed inwardly. Of all the spells Hermione had him learn, he wished they’d thought to learn the warming charm. He felt like an idiot. 

“In this riddle,” Bagman continued, “they were told that they must retrieve something they will ‘sorely miss.’” He paused, allowing the silence to stretch from the dramatic to the ridiculous. “However! They weren’t told exactly what it would be! I am here to tell you all that it is not what they will be retrieving but whom!”

The chill wind was nothing against the icy stab of fear that followed the proclamation. The air around the platform grew tense, thick with anxious anticipation. Fleur twitched forward, her hands balled into fists, steam floating from her skin into the air.

Bagman held up a hand and gestured to Krum. “Mr. Krum, you will be rescuing Miss Emilia, your friend, and classmate. Mr. Diggory, your target will be Miss Chang, your girlfriend.”

Cedric’s exposed skin went ashen, then he squared his shoulders and nodded.

“Miss Delacour, you will be rescuing Gabrielle, your sister.”

Her shaky exhale released a churning cloud of vapor. 

“Mister Potter, you will be saving Miss Granger, your friend.”

His ears rang and his hand strained against the glass bottle, the ridged top digging into his palm. He forced his hand to relax. It wouldn’t do to start the task with glass shards in his hand. 

Just like every year, the people he cared about were in peril because of him.

Again. 

His fear faded to a background hum. He had to save her.

“You have one hour!” Bagman’s voice cut through the air, his arm following suit a moment later. “Begin!”

Fleur was moving before the arm had stopped, a translucent bubble popping into existence around her head. Harry fumbled with the stopper of the bottle, the adrenaline burning through his veins doing little to dispel the icy numbness from his fingers. Two more splashes followed Fleur’s, and he was alone on the platform with Bagman. The bottle finally relented its top, and he dumped the slimy gillyweed directly into his mouth and swallowed.

For an agonizing minute, nothing happened.

He stepped to the edge of the platform and peered down into the murky water. Hermione was somewhere in those depths, waiting for him. He slid into the water, ignoring the cold that greeted him. The water stole his breath as he submerged up to his neck and left him gasping. Finding no relief, he lifted a surprisingly steady hand to his neck and found gills, their flaps opening and closing frantically in the air.

Without another thought, he dove.

~~XxX~~

Her warming charm shattered against the frigidity of the lake. The water stabbed at her extremities with icy daggers, drawing her frantic motions slow with cold. She took in a deep breath of the stale air of her bubble-head charm and drew deep of the fire that burned everpresent inside her chest. It recoiled against the wet and the cold, rejecting the alien terrain she dove so recklessly into. Warmth came reluctantly, suffusing her arms and legs, insulating her as she dove deeper into the murky depths.

She swam further down with broad strokes of her arms, alternating with kicks of her legs. A voice in her head that spoke with the voice of her mother berated her for not thinking to transfigure her arms and legs into something more effective for swimming. It was drowned out by her singular purpose.

_ Gabrielle _ .

Her fire responded to her call, burning white-hot in a burst of fear and anger. She strained, using the newfound energy to dive deeper into the gloom. Ahead, she came upon a field of bright green weeds, their long stalks swaying in an underwater breeze. She paused her descent, finally catching sight of the sloped wall of the lake. 

The plants sprouted from the mix of rock and sand in patches, growing more abundant as they followed the wall down towards the hidden lakebed. She followed the vegetation deeper, staying to one edge of the growth in an attempt to keep her bearings in the unfamiliar terrain. The slope gradually leveled off, depositing her on the lakebed alongside the forest of willowy weeds that stretched towards the sky somewhere beyond her sight.

_ ‘Lumos _ .’ Her wand flared to life, producing a steady glow to light the dim waters around her. 

The weeds beside her rippled a response, their stalks swaying in a sudden unseen current. Strands of hair floated in her periphery and she cursed, the word falling flat in the bubble surrounding her head. She kicked off the sandy bottom, her wand held aloft as she pushed deeper into the unknown waters.

Pins and needles stabbed through to the nerves of her fingers and she grit her teeth, drinking in more of her flame. It resisted, smoldering embers against what had been the roaring fire of before. 

Stubborn thing.

With a sharp breath, feeling returned to her fingers and toes, and she redoubled her efforts. A frantic, powerful kick sent her lunging forward, her hair finally falling free of its bun, streaming behind her.

The end of the weedy patch materialized through the murky water and she touched her foot to the bottom, kicking off again. The sand shifted beneath her, her committed momentum throwing her to the side instead of forward. The slimy plants parted as she fell through the verdant wall. 

Panicked, she thrust out an arm in an effort to right herself. Her grasp on her flame faltered at the shock, and it began to gutter.

Panic turned to horror as tiny sharp claws reached back.

~~XxX~~

Harry waved a bubbly goodbye to Myrtle and with a strong kick of his webbed feet, shot off toward the Merpeople’s village. Water pulled at his eyelids as he propelled himself forward with a steady beat of his legs. He peered down into the darkness below, his altered vision allowing him bare glimpses of the lakebed. He spotted the cluster of rocks to his left that Myrtle had indicated as his marker for turning to his right so as not to overshoot the hard-to-find village. A flash of light to his left caught his attention. Down at the bottom of the lake, in the weeds Myrtle had warned him away from, spellfire burst through the plants, illuminating a nightmare below him.

Small pale monsters swarmed from the forest of plants, arms outstretched towards a thrashing form. A red burst of light shot from the end of her wand, impacting against one of the creatures. It went limp, floating still in the water. Another of the things pushed it out of its way and reached towards Fleur, its horrible little hands grasping for her hair as she spun and kicked. Her foot smashed into the head of the nearest monster, sending it floating away dazed. Blood streamed behind her foot as she drew it back and Harry saw her falter.

He kicked hard, propelling himself toward her, his wand extended in front of him. She slashed her wand through the water in front of her, the resistance making her movement sluggish. A light-green spell arced from her wand, severing limbs and torsos off the beasts as it passed. A swath of cut weeds floated away, rising to the surface.

Creatures poured from the weeds like blood from a wound, pointed teeth bared as they lunged for Fleur. Harry thrust his wand forward, gurgling the incantations into the water. Despite being unintelligible to his ears, stunning spells spilled onto the creatures from above, partially halting their advance on his friend.

Three of them pushed forward, continuing their attack on Fleur. Her retaliatory spell flew wide as one of them grabbed onto her hair and yanked her head to the side with a strength belying its size.

With a swipe of his wand, he sent a stunner at the stragglers. The red burst of light missed and impacted the lakebed, kicking up a burst of sand as it hit. 

Moments later, a flash of light preceded a wave that spun Harry through the water, end over end. He kicked, instincts instilled by the gillyweed guiding him as he righted himself.

Below him, the creatures floated in the water, either stunned or dead. He looked around to find the cluster of rocks to regain his bearings, then gestured wildly to get Fleur’s attention. Once she was looking, he pointed in the direction of the village and they set off together.

Fleur’s kicks were steady but lethargic, her face a mask of stubborn determination. Faint ribbons of blood trailed behind her as she swam, diffusing in the wake of her kick.

They swam across the bottom of the Black Lake, Fleur kicking three times to each one of Harry’s. She stopped him with a quick tap on his leg and waved her wand in a familiar motion across her body. Her eyes went wide behind her bubble and she tried the motion again. With a grimace, she propelled herself forward, her wand clutched tight in her hand. 

Harry kicked after her, spying the jagged gash on her foot from one of those creatures’ horns. The sharp tang of blood flavored his mouth as he swam forward to catch up with her. He set his jaw. If she could swim in the freezing water with a wound in her foot, he wasn’t about to complain about the taste of blood in the water.

The underwater village materialized piecemeal in front of them, each misshapen domicile drifting into view as they swam along the bottom. A few of the houses had Merpeople floating in front with some children hidden behind adults, their big yellow eyes following them as they passed. As they neared the center, four obelisks appeared from the gloom, each with a person tied to the front by thick knotted ropes.

Hermione floated next to a young girl who could only be Fleur’s sister, matching silvery hair floating listlessly in the water. A shift of violent movement at his side drew his attention as Fleur shot forward, her features screwed into a rictus of fury. The fatigue that had plagued her movements before was gone, her bright blue eyes alight with angry purpose. With a sharp motion slowed by the water, she moved to cut her sister free.

The light green spell flew wide as a jet of red burst against the ground between them, kicking up a cloud of sand. Another two followed moments after, completely obscuring the hostages, and Fleur, from his view. He pointed his wand blindly up, sending a burst of his own stunning spells in retaliation. Various hues flashed beside him, reflected through the sand surrounding them. If the colors were to be believed, Fleur was being far less kind in her return volley than he had been.

More bright red streaks thumped against the ground, though their origin was growing far closer. He still couldn’t see who was behind the ambush but he saw the flash of the cast move down into the cloud for similar cover. Fleur spotted it as well, a lurid pink spell slicing a path through the cloud of sand.

Harry kicked towards the obelisks. He could help better if he were free of the floating visual impediment. His shoulder impacted hard against the stone that held Cho tight against it. 

He let out a grunt that burbled from his mouth. No time for pain. 

He used his hands to climb the stone, pulling free of the cloud that grew ever larger with each stray spell. Once free, he blinked to clear sandy debris from his eyes. Flashes of light pulsed within the roiling mass. The side nearest the pillars cast a wide variety of spells, while the other sent primarily stunners in Fleur’s direction.

Harry spared a glance over to where Hermione was tied, the top of her hair visible through the cloud. She would have known what to do. He rolled through the limited list of spells in his repertoire, as well as the few she had insisted he learn. Only one came to mind that would give Fleur a distinct edge. He thanked Hermione for her dogged suggestions. 

‘ _ Depulso _ .’ The words escaped in a mass of bubbles, but the effect was the same. There was a tremor in the water that originated at his wand-tip, and it pushed a hole through the sand, leaving a visible trail.

A bolt of red streaked through the opening, its wake pulling the short corridor closed. He trained his wand further up, to where he thought he had seen the wand flash that had originated the spell. Another utterance, another corridor.

Another. A streak of violet from Fleur.

Another, and another.

Finally, his casting bore fruit. His final spell exposed Krum, his head transfigured into that of a shark. He twisted in the water at the sudden vulnerability, beady black eyes spotting Harry.

Fleur capitalized, two pale red stunners impacting against Krum’s midsection.

Moments later, the sand settled uniformly against the lakebed. Fleur was already moving to where her sister still floated, tied to the stone pillar. She kicked up to where Gabrielle was tied, halfway up the tall stone structure. Her movements were jerky, frantic, and as he pushed closer, he could see why.

Bubbles broke away from her charm, floating up and away toward the surface. The failing charm was nearly spent, only a small pocket of air lingering across her nose and mouth beneath a shimmering surface. She didn’t spare him a glance as he drew close.

She held the thick ropes with her free hand, her fingertips blue from the cold. Tendons in her hand stuck out against her skin as she held it in a panic-filled grip. She placed her feet on the stone, standing sideways. Wand in one hand, rope in the other, she sucked in the last of her air, her eyes alight with fury.

The charm vanished.

Bubbles burst from her mouth as she cast the spell, her wand pointed carefully away from Gabrielle.

The muted green spell half-severed one of the thick ropes, leaving the other four intact. Fleur’s arm swung up and she put her wand between her teeth, her hands fumbling with the knots that bound her sister. Fury faded into panic within her eyes, and he moved to help, his webbed hands doing little to assist her own cold-slowed fingers.

Thoughts whirled through his head, ineffectual spells listing themselves in his mind as he yanked at the rope. He glanced up as a noise began to issue from Fleur. Her porcelain skin, red from strain, pulled taut at her neck, the veins and muscles fighting her to draw breath.

He focused on the knots, forcing his hands to move faster. She didn’t have-

Her hand on his elbow stopped him.

He looked up to meet her wide, pleading eyes. The whites were visible around the blue of her irises, and she shifted her gaze over to Gabrielle then back to Harry. She removed her hand from his elbow and pointed to her lips, tinted blue from the icy water. Her wand was still clutched in her teeth, and she pointed at his wand, held in his own.

He knew what she wanted. What she needed.

Terror gripped him and hurled him forward.

He grabbed her outstretched hand and wrapped his arm around her middle.

She strained against him, her hand still clutching the ropes around Gabrielle. She began to thrash in his arms, her features locked in naked primal fear. He got his legs beneath him and kicked off the pillar, tearing her hand from the ropes. She pushed against him, her strength waning. 

He thrust his wand heavenward.

_ ‘Ascendio!’ _

Tension sprang to life in his arm and they began to ascend, pulled upward by his wand.

Fleur flailed in his grip, twisting and struggling in a frantic effort to return to her sister.

An elbow slammed into the side of his head sending spots bursting across his vision. He squinted, trying to focus on his wand outstretched in front of him and the faint shimmering light beyond. His hand curled painfully tight against her midsection and he gritted his teeth against the sudden pain in his back as her nails dug into his bare skin.

Sharp fire tore through his arm. He pushed the pain from his mind.

She pulled her hands from his back. Gave a mighty heave against him. 

Twitched.

And stilled.

Icy fear poured in to replace the dizzying spots. It curled heavy and cold in his chest, growing more frigid with each limp brush of her arm against his skin.

Faster.

_ ‘Ascendio! _ ’ he shouted, ignoring the painful increase in shear force. His arm and chest screamed. 

He ignored them.

_ Faster. _

He opened his mouth to cast the spell again and found himself airborne. The force of his rising spell drove them out of the water, shouts of surprise ringing through the air. Fleur fell from his grasp as he instinctively began to flail, falling back towards the water.

He hit with an impact that drove the water from his altered lungs, leaving him gasping. He spun, treading water, trying to spot where Fleur would fall. A second splash never came.

He looked up to find her floating through the air to a grim-faced Dumbledore, his wand held aloft and pointed at her prone form.

With a kick, Harry ducked back down into the depths of the Black Lake.

_ ‘Descendo!’ _

~~XxX~~

Harry flopped onto the shore of the lake, his arms failing to heave him fully from the water. He retched, water spilling from his mouth as the gills on his neck closed and sealed back into smooth skin.

Hands reached him, grabbed him under the arms, and pulled him free of the water’s grasp. He sucked in a breath, he needed to know. Liquid pain spilled into his chest

Somewhere in the distance, far away from the constriction of his lungs and his burning need to know if Fleur was okay, he felt the impact of his limp arms back to the stone.

Voices churned around him, muffled as though he were still underwater. With a sudden smooth motion, he found himself in the air, his arms dangling behind him as he floated away from the lake. 

The sky overhead vanished behind the fabric of the medical tent and he felt warmth begin to chip at the numbness surrounding his body. He lifted his head, scanning the large tent. Karkaroff was leaning over the now-human form of Krum, his beady eyes locked on Harry as he floated past. Cedric was nowhere to be seen, but…

There. In a bed at the end of the row, sat Fleur.

Her hair was wet, splayed out to her side, the tips hanging off the edge of the bed. Her father and a woman who could only be her mother stood on her left while Madam Pomfrey foisted a bottle into her hands. Her eyes snapped up to him as he floated by and she opened her mouth to speak. Madam Pomfrey interjected herself between them, one finger pointed at the bottle. She spun to Harry as Fleur lifted the potion to her lips.

“You.” 

He wasn’t quite sure how she managed to convey a simultaneous threat and sense of relief all in a single word but the matron followed Harry to an empty bed, where Dumbledore lowered him to rest atop the sheets. 

Sharp flicks of her wand sent three bottles flying towards her. He tried to sit up, to ensure that he had seen correctly.

Agony tore through his chest and arms. What-?

“-down, Mr. Potter!” Madam Pomfrey’s hand was on his stomach. He peered down at it. “You must drink these. Now!”

A dark brown bottle was thrust into his face before he could wrangle his fragmented thoughts into a question. The foul liquid inside left a burning trail as it slid down his throat. The heat spread throughout his torso, banishing the lingering chill he hadn’t realized was still there.

Another bottle, green this time, was forced upon him. He gagged.

“One more,” said Madam Pomfrey, her mouth drawn into a thin line. He forced the drink down, unable to repress the shudder the bitter potion caused. Madam Pomfrey let out a slow breath, then fixed him with a softer gaze. “You shouldn’t be in danger any longer but you will be very uncomfortable while your muscles knit back together.” 

As if her words were the catalyst, a stinging sensation rippled through his chest and shoulders. His skin rolling in waves as the muscles moved of their own accord. He pushed the pain down and focused ahead at Fleur, who stared at him with her piercing blue eyes, her cheeks oddly puffed out. 

Madam Pomfrey followed his gaze and pointed to her. “When that potion has turned to gas, you’ve got two more to go. Remember, no talking while your throat heals.”

Fleur nodded, her cheeks deflating. She pulled another one of the bottles from the bed in front of her and downed it with a quick motion.

Her parents moved across the tent to stand at the end of Harry’s bed while Dumbledore still stood to his left. Madam Pomfrey fixed him with a look that clearly said, ‘Stay put,’ and moved to give the small group a modicum of privacy.

“Thank you,” Fleur’s father said. The deep confident voice Harry remembered from the World Cup was gone, replaced by a near-whisper. “You saved our daughter. There is nothing we can do to repay you for your heroism.” 

His wife nodded, pressing her trembling lips together into a line.

Harry waved off the thanks with a hand, though he regretted the movement instantly. Madam Pomfrey tutted from where she stood nearby. 

“You don’t have to repay me,” he said. “It wasn’t all that heroic, really. I think most people would have done the same.”

Mr. Delacour’s eyes bulged, his mouth working silently to form an adequate reply. He was saved by a soft chuckle from Dumbledore.

“I believe you are correct, Harry,” he said into the stunned silence. “Most people would want to help, though I think few would find themselves doing so.”

Harry felt his face heat. He tried to look anywhere but at the faces that smiled down at him. 

“And though your actions were truly heroic,” Dumbledore continued, his smile shifting into a faint frown, “there are some unintended consequences that we need to discuss.”

Harry looked between Dumbledore and the Delacours and found nothing in the way of answers. He peered around them to Fleur, who shrugged her own confusion, the last bottle clutched in her hand.

“Simply put, I believe that your actions were sufficient to create a life-debt between yourself and Miss Delacour.”

Fleur stiffened in response.

“We agree,” Fleur’s mother said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was deeper and less accented than Fleur’s, despite her smaller stature.

“We will be accepting the debt in her stead,” Mr. Delacour said, earning a glare from his wife.

“I will be the one to take it,” she corrected. “A man of your position cannot carry such a significant debt.”

Before Harry could reply, or even ask what a life debt was, a rasping voice from across the tent drew their attention.

“I will keep it,” Fleur said, her bright crystal clear voice reduced to a shaky rasp. Her words earned another ‘tut’ from Madam Pomfrey and looks of shock from her parents.

“Fleur, you shouldn’t-” her mother began.

“I don’t want it,” Harry cut in, shifting the surprised stares to himself. “Whatever it is.”

“A life-debt is not an insignificant thing, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “It can be quite valuable.” He gestured to Mr. and Mrs. Delacour. “Consider where they would be without your actions. Where Miss Delacour would be. You have saved them all from such a dismal fate. A life-debt is not the onerous thing it may sound.”

“I don’t want it,” he repeated. “How do I get rid of it?”

“You simply tell the debtor they are released,” Dumbledore said. The smile he leveled at Harry sent small waves of pride rushing through him.

Harry turned to look at Fleur, who stared at him with huge, incredulous eyes. “I release you from your life-debt,” he said, feeling foolish.

There was no rush of wind or the feeling of some snapping bond to accompany his words. Nothing happened for a long moment until a movement from Fleur’s mother drew his attention. She wiped at red eyes and offered him a tremulous smile.

“Whether it is magical or not,” she said. “We will always be in your debt.” She took in a breath and let it out slowly, affixing him with a more steady smile. “I would like to get to know you better, Mr. Potter.”

“As would I,” her father said.

“Come,” Dumbledore said, holding an arm out for the Delacours. “Let us allow them to rest. The hostages will wake soon, and we will all be able to return to the warmth of our rooms after a nice evening meal.”

~~XxX~~

Harry climbed the moving staircase, each step requiring a herculean effort. It swung away from the landing up to Gryffindor Tower and he stopped moving, letting his shoulders sag. The motion disagreed with his sore muscles, though the re-knitting had long since finished. As it had already countless times before, the pain conjured with it images and feelings. Spots in his vision, Fleur’s weight dragging against his arm. The knot on the back of his head.

The horrible stillness.

With a thud, the stairs landed at their destination. Harry jerked from his thoughts, surprised to find the landing he needed waiting for him. He hadn’t noticed the first stop.

While he climbed the rest of the stairs, his legs protesting the quick ascension the entire way. Though the webbed feet had made swimming easier, his legs still felt as though they were made of rubber.

Silence met his shuffling steps as he continued up to the portrait of the Fat Lady, who swung open at his muttered, “Vulneratis.”

He stumbled through the portrait hole to find Hermione waiting for him in the common room, a fire crackling in the hearth. She sat in one of the large chairs in front of the fireplace, her bushy hair as dry and wild as ever. A far cry from the brown halo that had surrounded her deathly serene expression at the bottom of the lake. Seeing her alive, moving, and reading...but if he had failed…

He sighed and tried to shake the intrusive images from his thoughts. 

Thoughts of pallid skin. Of panic: violent and pure. 

Blue eyes flashing with naked fury.

His hand tightened around her midsection against the struggle. His chest burned.

“Harry!” 

Hermione’s shout made him twitch in surprise. His eyes refocused from the murky gloom to find her on her feet, frowning at him. He took a shaky step forward towards the chairs and the warmth of the fire. 

“Ron’s down at the feast,” she said, returning to her seat. Her gaze followed him down into his own across from where she sat. “He wanted to wait too, but he was getting cranky and I thought you might be tired.”

Harry nodded his understanding, taking care to lean back slowly to avoid exacerbating his chest and shoulders. 

“They say you single-handedly got us all back to the surface,” she said into the silence. He again nodded his reply. She watched as he lifted a hand to massage his shoulder. “You didn’t have to save all of us though. Didn’t they tell you we would be fine?”

His hand froze in its ministrations and he let it drop to his lap. “The song from the egg said we had an hour. Then we’d lose what they took.” He swallowed against the rise of emotion in his chest. “Nobody said anything about you being okay.”

She leaned forward, a frown creasing her brow. “Then it’s extremely noble of you to have rescued everyone by yourself,” she said. “But Dumbledore wouldn’t let anyone die in this tournament if there was anything at all he could do about it. He told everyone it was safer this year.”

Without his permission, his eyes snapped up to her. They found her wide-brown eyes and held them. She flinched back.

She didn’t know.

“He would.” His words blanketed the room, bringing a chill despite the fire. Gentle but firm disagreement settled in her features. “He did.”

Her budding speech died in her throat as his almost inaudible whisper. She frowned deeper. “Harry, I saw everyone leaving the tent. They revived us out front. I stood next to you when they announced the scores.”

He nodded slowly, the indistinct memory of shouted numbers and cheers flitting through his thoughts. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. The burning protest in his arms and chest dragged him back to the present.

“She d-” His voice failed him, the word fighting against its utterance. Teeth clenched, he focused on the rug beneath his feet. 

Seeing the veins at her neck. Her pleading blue eyes. 

“She-as I was holding her.”

Hermione made no move, sitting stock-still next to him. A log in the fire cracked, spilling embers across the stone.

“She drowned,” he forced out. He had to blink away furious tears.

One fell traitorously to the floor.

He tried to breathe slowly, to master himself as he’d done countless times before.

Slow in. Slow out. Push it away.

His exhale trembled.

Slow in. Slow out.

Why wouldn’t it work?

“We got there at the same time.” The words spilled from him, vomited up like water from his lungs. “She dueled Krum, then she tried to get her sister loose. Her charm was gone. She had no air. We tried to untie the ropes but I couldn’t make my hands work right. Couldn’t make them work fast enough.” 

He found himself wringing those hands. The very same that had failed her short hours before. He tried to let out a slow breath through his nose but it hitched in his throat. 

“She looked at my wand and asked me to help her and I couldn’t. She needed air, anything.” He wiped absently at moisture trailing down his cheeks. “So I grabbed her instead. I tried to get her back to the surface.

“She fought me. She wanted to save her sister. The whole time we were rising she was fighting. Until…until…in my arms-” he lurched, fighting a desperate war against himself. “She di…s-she…”

He couldn’t. The words choked him. Locked his throat around the horrible truth.

There was motion at the edge of his blurry vision as Hermione moved to the couch to sit nearer to him. He wanted to recoil. She couldn’t touch him. Otherwise…

“It’s okay,” she whispered instead: a comfort almost as damning. “You saved her. She was standing right next to me after you both left the tent. She’s okay.”

He nodded, his jaw clenched tight against any further deluge of worthless outbursts.

Slow in. Slow out.

The fire crackled into the silence.

His hands released from their painful grip on each other. 

“I need to go to bed,” he whispered.

“Harry,” Hermione said, pleading. “You should-”

“Goodnight, Hermione,” he said, his voice controlled. He ignored her protests as he climbed the stairs and out of sight, resigning himself to the horrid forms his nightmares would take.

~~XxX~~

The door to her room clicked shut behind her and Fleur found herself at a profound loss. Her cloak slipped from her fingers, dropping into a pile on the floor. Though she hadn’t eaten anything at the feast, it had provided her a framework in which to act, to exist. To not think.

Now she was alone. Gabrielle had been sent along with Madame Maxime, her parents stopping briefly to talk with the Headmistress. Fleur’s feet had carried her away from them and down to the carriages of their own accord. Her once inviting room felt cold and empty.

She had managed a single shuffling step forward when her door opened behind her. Her parents stepped through and bundled her into their arms. The door closed behind them, and her mother let out an agonized wail. She began to sob into Fleur’s shoulder, held aloft by her husband’s arms wrapped tightly around them.

“I’m sorry,” Fleur whispered. Her throat stung at the quiet words and she tightened her grip on her parents.

The pain in her heart overshadowed everything else.

She had failed.

She had fought with everything she had to save her sister, and she had failed her. As the icy water blazed through her chest, she could only hope Harry would save her sister in her stead.

And he had.

He had saved them both, tearing his body apart to do so.

A sharp intake of breath from her father drew her from her pain-filled thoughts. His strength flagged, and as one they sank to the floor. He broke then, a heaving sob bursting from him, prompting her mother to follow suit. 

The deadly tournament faded from her thoughts as she clutched her parent’s robes and began to cry.

~~XxX~~

“Y _ ou are most fortunate that you are needed. _ ” 

The shrill, alien voice pierced the room, making its two other inhabitants shudder involuntarily. One, standing next to a cold fireplace ran a hand through his sandy-blond hair, his filthy, half-breed wand pointed at the trembling man. The tip of the appropriated holly wand glowed with a cold blue light, exposing the cowardly man.

The snake coiled around the rat’s legs, its tongue tasting prey.

“ _ You will attend to me _ ,” the voice said, a knobby finger raised to the air. “ _ While others, more deserving of my favor, work to return me to my glory.” _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a day. Enjoy a second posting.


	10. A Return to Normalcy

**Chapter 10: A Return to Normalcy**

A familiar creak echoed through the quiet hallways as Professor McGonagall pushed open the door to the hospital wing and ushered Harry inside. Early morning light shone through the eastern windows, melting the night’s frost from the glass. The beds arrayed across both sides of the room sat empty, their sheets and pillows all sat identically atop each one.

“Ah, thank you, Minerva.” Madam Pomfrey said, stepping from her office at the back of the room. Professor McGonagall nodded and bid Harry a quiet goodbye. “Stand over here,” the matron instructed. “The sooner we check those muscles of yours the better.”

Moving forward, he obeyed, his steps still sluggish after the subpar sleep he’d snatched from the intervals between nightmares. 

He shook the memory of the chanting faces from his mind, their words echoing even as they vanished. 

_ ‘Worthless’. _

“Any pain or stiffness this morning?” she asked, her wand tracing a line up his left arm and circling his shoulder.

“No more than usual,” he said.

“That’s good.” More tracing, this time lingering on either side of his chest. “And how are you doing otherwise?”

“Otherwise, Ma’am?”

Her wand continued its trail, but she focused on him instead, making him fidget and break the eye contact. 

“If I recall, yesterday you were made to dive into a nearly frozen lake, rescue a friend, then had to go back and do it all again!”

His involuntary step back made her grimace and she refocused on her work, her wand hovering over his right shoulder.

“Not to mention,” she continued, calmer. “You had to watch someone die in front of you.”

His spine went rigid as more of his dreams flashed across his vision. “I-She didn’t…She’s fine, though.”

“But you didn’t know that.” She let her wand fall to the side and took a step back.. “Just because she was resuscitated, doesn’t mean that it didn’t happen. That you didn’t experience it.”

His shameful tears in front of Hermione prickled at the corners of his eyes, threatening to return.

No. No more. That blubbering mess couldn’t be him.

“I’m just glad she’s okay,” he said. Small truths.

Madam Pomfrey nodded, her countenance softening even further. He scanned her features. If he knew how she was feeling, he’d know what to expect next.

Was she…nervous?

“If I may, Mr. Potter,” she said. “I have been at Hogwarts for a long time. I’ve helped students through any number of physical and emotional stressors that come from living in a place so saturated with young people learning to control their volatile magic. My time here has given me insight into not only magical healing and potions, but practical healing as well.”

He nodded, fighting against the desire to flee the sudden shift in conversation.

“I would like to think that I know you well enough, Mr. Potter, to know that you are not going to like what I am about to say.”

Tension rippled through his body, the muscles across his chest giving a feeble protest.

“I have yet to encounter a student that hasn’t, in the long run, benefited from discussing such events and difficulties with someone.” Her hand raised as if to stop his protests but he had none. His jaw creaked as he clenched his teeth in an effort to remain composed. “I do not require an answer. I only ask that you consider what I have said, in your own time.” 

She sighed as she let her hand drop. “Your teachers are here to help you learn and grow. You can go to them at any time, myself included, should you need help.”

He nodded dutifully, eying the exit.

“Think on it,” she said, moving to the side and out of the way of his path to the door. “That is all I ask.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” he said, before rushing out of the doors and into the freedom of the empty halls.

His heart beat hard against his ribs, his thoughts stumbling through her words, despite his wishes.

Talk about it? About her limp form? The easy-to-ignore pain of torn muscles? Of a booming, enraged voice that followed him to Hogwarts, reminding him who he was? What he was?

A failure.

Worthless.

His stomach interjected itself into the spiral, reminding him that a missed opportunity at food was unforgivable and that he had already skipped dinner the night before. The thought of being around so many people in such a state put him on edge. Hermione’s worried gaze had followed him out of the common room when he’d been summoned by Professor McGonagall so early in the morning. He doubted he could handle any more questions.

Maybe he could get Ron talking about Quidditch instead.

~~XxX~~

Fleur let out a silent sigh as her mother slipped into her room, her presence promising yet another day of introspection and talking about what had happened. She had barely left her side in the week following the Second Task, opting to ensure Fleur had left no aspect of her trauma in the lake unexamined. The attention had been comforting at first, a warm blanket of love to push away the cold fingers that had reached to steal her life away.

But a week of it had become a bit much.

“No need to sigh at me,” her mother said, tossing her heavy cloak onto Fleur’s desk chair. “I only want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I know.”

“And I know you are growing tired of these conversations, Fleur.” A change from her usual, ‘How are you feeling?’

Fleur nodded in reply, taking the requisite moment to amend her reflexive reply. “I know you want to help, but…”

Her mother nodded. “I could see that you weren’t gaining anything more from our conversations, and I don’t want you to…” Fleur glanced over in surprise as her normally unflappable mother hesitated. “I don’t want you to resent me.”

Before she could do anything more than stare, her mother was speaking again, her voice rushed and nervous.

“The talks were for both of us, really,” she said. “I’m still far from over what happened. We almost lost you…” she paused, letting out a breath. “Again.”

Fleur froze, her irritation abating. Before she could answer, a memory bubbled to the surface, a question escaping before she could hold it back.

“Why did you and Papa tell Gabrielle about the Louvre?” she asked in a voice far steadier than she might have expected.

“We only told her that someone tried to kidnap you,” her mother said, defensive. “She’s twelve for goodness sake. We wouldn’t have said anything at all if she hadn’t asked.”

“She specifically asked what happened to me at the Louvre?”

“Of course not. When your father and I first sat her down for the talk, we asked her if she had any questions when we were done. She asked if anything bad had happened to us because of what we are.”

Fleur nodded, her own version of ‘the talk’ rising in her memory. Along with the parts that had frightened her.

“I think it all scared her,” her mother continued. “She was interested and engaged at first. Towards the end, she began to shut down, and after that, she began to avoid the discussion at all costs.” She turned to Fleur, a warm smile lifting her cheeks. “Thank you for talking with her. I could tell she was more at ease after that.”

“I just want it to be easier for her,” Fleur said. “For her to have someone who understands what it’s like.”

“I understand,” her mother said, a hint of teasing in her tone.

“Someone who doesn’t still call it the ‘Veela Charm’,” Fleur replied, taking the bait.

“It’s just a phrase.”

“One that promotes the misguided image people have of us and our heritage. It’s why it’s known as the lustful ‘allure’ instead of simply our Veela abilities…or our Veela Curse,” she added, petulance seeping into her tone.

“Oh, hush,” her mother said good-naturedly. “You have a friend now. There’s no reason you can’t get more.”

“I do…” Fleur said, her shoulders sagging. “But it feels like he’s been…distant, since the Ball. I could tell the prospect of having his emotions made clear to me did not sit well with him.”

“Everybody has things they don’t want to share with the world. I’m sure he has his reasons for being protective of his privacy,” her mother said, a frown furrowing her brow. It was gone in a bare moment. “The only thing you can do is respect that. He will grow used to the idea, with time.”

Fleur nodded, unsure if the few months they had left would be enough to bridge that gap. She allowed her mother to turn the conversation back to more idle topics, detailing her father’s monumental tasks as ambassador, and long nights alone at their home in France.

~~XxX~~

Harry sat with Ron and Hermione in the library with parchment and books spread across the table as Hermione worked, her quill scratching as she wrote. In the week since the Second Task, the whirlwind of questions and praise had slowed, due in no small part to Ron running interference as necessary when curious students got too pushy.

He had spent the time glued to his friends, ruminating on Madam Pomfrey’s advice and doing his best to get back to normal. He found himself understanding Fleur’s desire to see him after the First Task, to reassure herself that he was okay. Every time he saw her at one of the meals, he wanted to go up, to talk to her. But the sight of her helped push the reminder of her cold body from his mind.

He was shaken from his thoughts when a small gray owl landed on the table, skidding across a pile of Hermione’s parchment as it came to stop. Ron let out a snort of laughter as Hermione shooed the bird to another spot on the table. It waddled over to Harry and offered up its leg.

_ Mr. Potter, _

_ I apologize for not meeting you in person to make this request but I find moving through the castle onerous and difficult for reasons I’m sure Fleur has explained. I will be returning to France tomorrow, and I was hoping you would agree to meet us for dinner this evening at the Three Broomsticks. We will be there at seven. _

_ I look forward to meeting you properly. _

_ Yours, _

_ Apolline Delacour _

Harry folded the letter and tucked it into his robes. He bid a quick goodbye to his friends and left, trying not to notice their stares as he left.

~~XxX~~

They watched him go, both considering their departing friend.

“Something’s eating him up,” Ron said, startling Hermione.

“Well…yes,” she said, caught too off-balance to offer a more intelligent reply.

He stared at her a moment, his blue eyes wide. “You know what it is.”

She nodded, dropping her eyes to the table, preparing to reject his questions.

“I guess-” he said after a moment. “I guess he’ll tell me if he wants to.”

She blinked. “That’s very mature of you, Ron.”

“Well, it’s like you said.” He rubbed at his nose with his thumb. “It’s not enough to want to be better. I have to actually be better, right?”

A burst of warm appreciation resounded in her chest at his words. She never thought he’d have taken her advice to heart so readily. She smiled at him and returned to her project. Sirens really were interesting creatures.

~~XxX~~

Harry trudged through the snow towards the Three Broomsticks, the cold evening air rushing by, stinging his exposed ears. He tugged the large cap down over his head, the worn elastic failing to keep it snug. He followed a seventh-year couple into the pub, a rush of warm air fogging his glasses as he stepped through the threshold.

“Mr. Potter!” Madam Rosmerta called, waving to him from behind the bar. “They’re upstairs waiting for you. Second room.”

He ignored the whispers that sprang to life around him as he passed occupied tables on his way to the stairs. At least now they sounded positive and speculatory.

He took the stairs two at a time, wiping his glasses on the front of his robes as he climbed. His stomach did nervous flips as he approached the door that held Fleur and her mother. He took in a deep breath and knocked.

The door swung open to reveal Fleur’s mother, who beckoned him in with a welcoming wave of her hand.

“Come in, come in,” she said, stepping aside to let him through.

The private room was small, with a single window opposite the door looking out onto the snow-covered roof of the building next door. To the right were two chairs sitting in front of a blazing fire. The added heat washed over him, and he pulled his outer cloak off and hung it on a peg next to the door. Fleur stood behind a chair at a small circular table and offered him a brief smile that only made it partway to her eyes. He frowned inwardly, then jumped when her mother placed a hand on his shoulder. She too frowned, then favored him with another wide smile.

“Please, join us,” she said, holding a hand out to the table. “Sebastian asked me to offer his apologies. He wanted to meet you as well but his work often gets in the way.”

“Fleur said he was the ambassador, Ma’am,” Harry said, sitting down.

“Apolline is just fine, Harry,” she said, taking a seat of her own with a smile. Her accent was less pronounced than her daughter’s, leaving his name more complete. “Or Mrs. Delacour, if you must.” Harry nodded his agreement, taking a quick bite of the food in front of him. “I see Fleur was truthful in telling me that you are immune to our allure.”

He swallowed, sparing a glance over at Fleur who was staring pointedly at her mother. “Not completely, Ma’am…er, Mrs. Delacour.”

“Well, you are a blank wall to me,” she said with a smile. “My senses aren’t nearly as sharp as Fleur’s but if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were an Occlumens.”

Harry shook his head, finishing his bite. “I don’t even know what it is. I’m just…not usually affected.”

Apolline nodded, taking a bite of her food. “Yes, she told me of your…unusual moment during the Ball.” She grinned. “Be glad she told you when she did. The first time it happened with her father, who was an Occlumens even back then, I didn’t say anything. It came out during an argument much later.”

He looked over to Fleur who colored slightly at the comment and focused on the table.

Silence sat between them, the clink of silverware on plates the only sound to match the crackle of the fire.

“I suppose I should come out with it then,” Apolline said, setting her fork down on her plate. She turned to face him fully. “Part of the reason I asked you here tonight was to properly thank you for what you did for my daughter. For us. Not only did you save her life but you returned it to her by releasing your well-earned debt. Thank you.”

He sat, frozen, staring at the woman’s open, honest expression. He could see Fleur in her earnest blue eyes.

Eyes that grew wide with panic. Begging. Frantic.

Slow in. Slow out.

“I couldn’t do nothing,” he said, clamping down on runaway thoughts with a grip strengthened by recent exercise.

“And I’m glad you didn’t,” she said. “But you deserve our thanks, and if there is anything we can do to repay you, you need only ask.”

She shifted the conversation to less treacherous waters, talking of their home in France, Gabrielle’s enthusiasm for school, and the beginning of a story about a much younger Fleur, which was promptly stopped by the person in question. He answered questions about himself as best he could, deflecting the ones about his family under his usual guise of, ‘They don’t like magic much.’

As the evening began to wear away, Apolline stood and excused herself, citing an early morning’s return to France. She stood and donned a deep blue cloak before turning back to Harry.

“You should expect an invite to our home this summer,” she said, pulling her garment tight around her.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he said, staring at a point on the wall over her shoulder. “I’ll be busy this summer.”

“Perhaps on one of the holiday breaks then, during the year,” she continued, undeterred. “Sebastian may very well drag you to France if you deny him for too long. You’ve made quite an impression, for obvious reasons, and Gabrielle thinks the world of you.”

“Yes…Mrs. Delacour.”

“I’ll see you later, Fleur,” she said.

“Goodnight, Maman.”

The door closed behind her, leaving Harry and Fleur alone in the room. They sat in silence for a moment before Fleur spoke. “Could we…move to those chairs? It will be much warmer over there.”

Harry nodded and moved across the room. He tossed another log on the fire before sitting in the chair on the right, while Fleur sat opposite.

She smoothed the front of her robe as she sat on the edge of her seat, crossing her ankles. “I need to thank you as well.”

“You don’t-”

“I do.” Her tone was stern and final, her brilliant blue gaze even more so. “I would have died down there without you. What kind of person would I be if I did not thank you?”

“I just…you needed help,” he said, shrugging.

She nodded, hair spilling over her shoulder with the motion. She sighed and bundled it up, this time tying it back with a black ribbon she pulled from a pocket.

“How are you?” she asked, pulling the bow tight. “I know it was no easy task for you to haul so many people from the bottom of that accursed lake.”

“I’m fine,” came his automatic answer. “How are you?” The question came more emphatically than he had planned. He hoped the firelight covered the heat he felt growing in his cheeks.

“I am…better,” she said, a hand straying towards her throat.

After a moment, she frowned at him before relaxing back into her chair.

“I realized,” she said, “that I have spent much of our time together talking about myself, and the things I can do. I have, very rudely, asked you little about yourself. What do you like to do, when not at Hogwarts?” she asked, offering a small, teasing smile. “Not saving people from dangerous situations, I hope.”

He stilled, his hand finding its way to his arm where the basilisk fang had pierced him.

Her question came careful and slow. “Have you…had to save others before?”

He stopped rubbing his arm. In their time together, she had shared so much of herself and her experiences. She told him she could sense him and promised to let him know as soon as it happened again. 

_ If _ it happened again.

In his lingering silence, she began to backtrack. “You do not have to tell me if you are uncomfortable.”

He looked up to find an anxious expression staring back at him. A smile crept across his face, some of his own anxiety abating.

“I have,” he said, the idea of volunteering information about himself feeling bizarre. “It was mostly luck though.”

“How so?” she asked, intrigued.

“Well,” he said, glancing out the dark windows. “How long have you got?”

“As long as it takes.”

~~XxX~~

“You do realize this sounds insane, no?” Fleur interjected as he finished detailing the dying screams of an evil, sentient diary.

“Yeah,” he said, deflating as the remnant adrenaline from the memories faded. He had been hoping she would believe him, though there was no denying how outlandish his claims sounded, even to his own ears. “I don’t have any way to convince you, really. Besides taking you to the chamber.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyebrows rising in surprise. “I believe you. I worded that poorly. You have given me no reason to distrust you.”

“Even I barely believe it,” he said, sinking back into his chair. “And I was there.”

“Well,” she said, offering an apologetic smile as she tapped gently on her forehead. “It is not the only unbelievable thing about you. I think that makes it a little easier to accept.”

“Still,” he grumbled. “I wish I could prove it.”

“You could swear an unbreakable vow that you are telling the truth,” she said, waving the suggestion away the moment it left her lips. “The downside being that you would die were you being untruthful.”

“I’ll do it!”

“You do not need to, ‘Arry,” she said. “I do not actually trust you if I require proof.”

He stared at her, her words echoing through his mind as though she had shouted them.

“Thanks,” he finally managed. “For always believing me. Most don’t.”

“Your two friends do though, do they not?” she asked.

“Hermione does. Ron comes around eventually.” She frowned at him, drawing her lips together into a line. “He does,” Harry said with a laugh. “He’s not that bad.”

“I did not say he was,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“I know,” he said. “It’s just…you can be easy to read…sometimes. Easier than most people, anyway. Sorry.” She arched an eyebrow at him and he felt the inexplicable need to explain. “It’s not a bad thing! I just…most people…It’s nice.”

Fleur seemed to hesitate, one corner of her mouth curled into a mischievous smile. She let it fall and regarded him sincerely. “Why?”

“Lots of people are two-faced,” he explained after a moment’s thought. “Or they aren’t, but the only one they’ve got is a bit of a bastard.” 

Fleur laughed and he felt his cheeks warm. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Do not be sorry,” she said. “It is true.”

He felt the warmth travel down to his neck as his mouth spoke of its own prerogative. “That’s why I like talking to you.”

The pure, dazzling smile she offered him in return was a balm to soothe his lingering embarrassment.

~~XxX~~

Harry trod a familiar path through Hogwarts, turning down corridors and passing tapestries that he had seen uncountable times during his frequent trips to the library to find Hermione. Most of the time he didn’t even bother checking the Marauder’s Map for her whereabouts, but it wasn’t often that he was the herald of a potential friendship.

“If she is the…good…one of your friends,” Fleur had said at the end of their meeting, her distaste for Ron’s actions early in the year lingering where Harry’s had faded, “then I would like to meet her. If you think she will not mind…me.” She had waved a hand over her face as she finished, a nervous frown wrinkling her brow.

He had assured her that Hermione would be happy to meet with her, though as he drew nearer to the library, he found himself growing more nervous than he had expected to be.

He found Hermione at her usual table at the center of the library. She was surrounded by books, as was her custom, but the stacks weren’t as high as usual. He wandered up to see what she was working on. If it were an essay then at least half the table would be covered in research materials. He peeked over at the nearest stacks to see what she was reading. “Barrelbore’s Guide to Sentient Magical Beings” and “The True and Accurate Accounts of Sirenum Scopuli” lay on top, each marked with half a dozen strips of colored paper for bookmarks.

“Hermione?” He asked, taking care not to be too loud, lest he surprise her. She nearly jumped out of her chair anyway.

“Harry! I didn’t expect you.” She glanced over her work and a familiar glint sparked in her eye. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask-”

“Before that,” he interrupted, trying not to wince at the offended look on her face as she glared up at him for standing in the way of whatever she was researching. “Fleur asked me to see if you wanted to meet up with her one evening. She’d like to get to know you too.”

“She-” Hermione gaped, then shifted her glare over to her small pile of books. “I do have some questions,” she muttered. She turned back to him. “Did you know that Sirens and Veela-”

He held up his hands to stop her, earning him a look of confusion from his friend. “I think it’s a little strange…to be able to read all about someone in a book before meeting them properly.”

She flushed up to her roots and nodded, no doubt remembering their first interaction on the Hogwarts Express. He had read the books she mentioned eventually. Not a single one was accurate in the least.

She looked up at him, her hands clasped in her lap. “Are you going to be there too?”

He nodded, leaving Fleur’s similar request unmentioned.

“You can use Hedwig to send her your reply. Trust me, it’s easier than trying to track her down.”

Hermione nodded, shutting her book with a resolute ‘thump.’ The front read; “The Collected Works of William Shakespeare, the Greatest Muggle Playwright of the 16th century.”

“I’ll send her the letter tonight.”

~~XxX~~

The following week, Harry and Hermione walked in silence to the agreed-upon classroom, both lost in thought. Ron had taken the polite exclusion well, though Harry had noticed the falsity within his friend’s answering smile. He rubbed his hands together as they passed one of the courtyards, the early March air still frigid as it blew. He picked up the pace, looking forward to the fire he knew would be blazing in the classroom when they arrived.

A flickering light beneath the door to their destination told him he had been right in his guess. Hermione stepped forward, squared her shoulders, and rapped lightly on the wooden door.

“Come in!” Fleur’s answer came a few moments later, and a little too loud. Harry smiled inwardly. It seemed Hermione wasn’t the only nervous one.

He followed Hermione inside to find three chairs arrayed near to the fireplace. One, he noticed, was quite a bit closer to the fireplace than the others. Fleur waved them closer, taking the warmest seat for herself.

“Hello,” she said, glancing from Harry to Hermione. “Thank you for coming.”

Hermione didn’t answer right away, instead staring at Fleur in the flickering firelight for a moment, her eyes wide. She shook away whatever was bothering her and pasted a smile on her face. “Thanks for inviting me,” she said.

Harry pulled his chair slightly away from the other two, content to watch one of his best friends learn about his newest one. His stomach did an uncomfortable flip. He hoped it went well.

“Of course,” Fleur said with a deliberate nod. Her hair was tied back as it often was, her black ribbon tied loosely at the base of her neck. “Harry speaks quite highly of you. I thought it might be nice for us to meet and get to know one another.” Hermione nodded, prompting Fleur to relax. She blew out a slow breath. “Harry has told you some of my situation? Of what it is like to be Veela?”

“Well, no. He’s good at keeping secrets. He won’t talk about someone’s personal business like that.” Fleur shot him a grateful smile while Hermione hesitated. “I did do a little research, though.”

That caught Fleur’s attention, though Harry saw no anger in her, only that intense curiosity of hers. “Oh? What did you find?”

“Surprisingly little. Most Veela seem to prefer heat to cold,” she said, looking over to the nearby fire.

“A downside to having a fire affinity,” Fleur said with a nod. “The colder winters here compared to home are torture.”

Hermione stared at the fire, nodding slowly. 

“Can you really throw fire when you’re not...?” she asked, jumping as she spoke. Her eyes went wide but Fleur just smiled.

“I can,” she answered, raising a steady hand. A roiling ball of bright orange flame leaped into existence above her palm.

Harry leaned back against the painful, pulsing heat that washed over him and Hermione scooted her chair away from the fireball.

“Doesn’t it burn to be so close?” Hermione asked, wiping at her brow with her sleeve.

“It is my fire,” Fleur said simply, waving her free hand through the flame. “It cannot hurt me.”

She snuffed out the fireball and glanced over at Harry. He could see…something in her gaze but he wasn’t sure what. He opted to smile back, which made her smile in return.

“Amazing,” Hermione whispered, scooting her chair back to where it had been. “It’s like your own personal wandless, non-verbal magic.”

“Not exactly. It is as though there is a fire inside me, and I can draw from it. However, as with any fire, it needs fuel, so doing so is exhausting. If I have my wand to hand, I have no reason to use it.”

“And they grow even larger after your transformation, right?” Hermione leaned forward in her chair.

“They do.”

“Can you change whenever you want?”

“I can.” Fleur allowed the unasked question to hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “But I will not. I am not a carnival animal for performing tricks.”

“Of course not,” Hermione answered, a little too quickly. “So…what do you like to do for fun?”

Fleur stared without speaking for a long moment. 

“I like to read,” she said after a time.

“Really?”

Harry smiled. He doubted Fleur could have chosen a more perfect hobby to mention.

“What do you like?” Hermione continued, her nerves fleeing from the familiar topic. “I really enjoy historical books about the magical world or biographies of famous witches and wizards.”

“I prefer fiction over non-fiction.”

“Oh, I enjoy fiction as well. Particularly mysteries. Do you have a favorite? I’m terrible at choosing mine.”

Fleur smiled and tapped a finger on her chin. “I would probably have to choose… ’The Witch’s Niece’.”

“That one was quite good. An interesting re-imagining,” Hermione said. “I thought the Chronos Circle was enjoyable, if a bit slow in the beginning.”

Harry relaxed back in his chair as they delved into a world of books that he did not know. Even so, he found himself smiling as they traded titles and the nonsense names of characters that they loved. With each laugh and smile, he felt the specter of the Second Task falling further away from his mind. He made a game of trying to figure out how the names of the characters they were mentioning were spelled. He let out a contented sigh, enjoying the warmth of both the fire and his friends.

The evening wore on and eventually, Fleur had to call a stop to their conversation. Hermione talked excitedly all the way back to Gryffindor tower, mostly about books Harry had never even heard of. He bid her goodnight at the base of the stairs up to the dorms, walking quietly up the fourth-year rooms so as not to wake anyone already in bed. 

Once settled, it wasn’t long before he drifted into sleep, his thoughts wandering back to the pleasant conversation.

Dreams burst fitfully to life behind his eyelids, his thoughts recreating the room from earlier. Hermione and Fleur still sat by the fire, each one gesturing as they spoke.

It looked just as it had…but…

Rather than her black bow tied by her neck, Fleur was wearing an orange ribbon tied around her head that held her hair back away from her eyes. On the side, just above her ear, was a matching orange flower.

It was the flower that caught his eye.

It bloomed from a bud, its petals the same sunset orange as the ribbon. While most of the flower was vibrant ocher, the tips of the petals glowed a luminescent purple, pulsing gently as he stared.

A loud, melodious laugh from Fleur caught his attention and he was lost to the fiction of the dream.

~~XxX~~

“You’ve got to give me something, Dumbledore,” Moody growled. “It’s been months since Potter’s name come out of the Goblet, and over half a year gone since the murders at the World Cup. Are you planning to sit around and wait for the worst?”

“Certainly not, Alastor,” Dumbledore replied from where he stood behind his desk. “I am quite aware of the situation.”

“And we’ve made no progress at all?” Sirius asked. A tall fire roared in the fireplace next to him and he held his bone-thin fingers out for warmth.

“We have, as yet, been unable to determine the motivation behind Harry’s inclusion in the tournament.”

“It’s him,” Moody spat. “He’s on the move. I can feel it.”

“We do not know for certain that Voldemort is the driving force at work behind Harry’s predicament.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” Sirius interrupted, turning. The firelight hung off the sunken angles of his face. The steely glint in his eye shifted his visage into every inch the hardened criminal the Ministry claimed him to be. “Are you willing to bet Harry’s life on it?”

Thunder flashed behind half-moons.

“Do not insult me, Sirius.” There was no change in tone or inflection but Sirius felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Moody’s rough chuckle made him jump.

“Theatrics aside, Potter’s life is still on the line here, nefarious plot or no. We need to come up with some sort of plan. Even a bad one is better than none.”

“I assume you mean your suggestion to place a tracking charm on Harry?” Dumbledore asked.

“It would help,” Moody said with a shrug. “No denying that.”

“It is the not insignificant invasion of privacy that concerns me. He is a very private individual. I doubt he would acquiesce to constant monitoring. Regardless, if the Death Eaters from the World Cup are behind this, they will be unable to harm him within Hogwarts.”

“Like Voldemort couldn’t?” Sirius growled, taking sadistic pleasure at the guilt that flashed where anger had lived moments before in Dumbledore’s aged eyes. “I’m not against a trace on Harry, even if it is overly paranoid. I’ll talk to him about it. If he says no, then we figure something else out. If nothing comes to us, we do it anyway.”

A nod from Dumbledore and a less-than-polite grumble of assent from Moody were his answer.

“In equally frustrating news,” Dumbledore continued, lowering himself into his chair. “Sebastian has yet to uncover anything to aid us with your mistrial, Sirius.”

“I’ll only be pardoned with Pettigrew or Veritaserum, and they’d have me kissed if I show up asking around for a truth potion.”

“Bureaucratic bastards the lot of em,” Moody said. “If there’s nothing else, I’m off to stalk Karkaroff. He’s been too good lately, like he’s trying to be on his best behavior. It’s suspicious.”

“Please do not antagonize Igor any more than necessary, however, I will not attempt to dissuade you any further than that,” Dumbledore said before turning to Sirius. “We’ll keep working on this. I have others out searching for word of Peter. We think he may be back in the country, though we are unsure where. We will get you your freedom as soon as we can.”

Sirius nodded from his chair, hope burning a feeble flame in his chest. So long as he could help Harry, he’d be happy.


	11. The Third Task

**Chapter 11: The Third Task**

Spring arrived slowly, manifesting most days as the occasional warm ray of sunlight amidst melting snow. Early March didn’t see many sun-filled days but one of the few saw an argument brewing between Harry’s two closest friends. He hung back slightly from their disagreement, unable to shake the feeling that he was somehow responsible.

“It’s none of your business whom I choose to talk to, Ronald!” Hermione said, one finger pointed at him for emphasis. “There isn’t a single reason for you to be upset. Besides, you would have spent the whole time gaping like an idiot, just like at the World Cup. Why would you even want to meet with her?”

“I wanted…” Ron trailed off, his mouth working as he chewed on his words. Contemplative blue eyes flitted towards Harry before returning to Hermione. “I dunno. I’ll see you guys in class.”

He broke away at a trot, disappearing around the corner to the Charms hall.

“Honestly. Throwing a fit just because he wants to be close to a pretty girl.” Hermione’s hair bobbed as she shook her head.

Harry kept his mouth shut.

They neared the corner, rounding the suit of armor that Professor Flitwick often charmed with whatever spell they were to study that day. It waved to them as they passed then lifted its helm in greeting to Hermione, who stared wide-eyed.

“Animation charms! Oh, I’ve been trying to get the hang of those since our first year. Can you imagine how useful it’d be to-”

“Potter!” The gravelly shout made him jump and he whirled to find Professor Moody hobbling towards them. “Spare a moment?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hermione stopped alongside Harry, darting glances to the suit of armor as it greeted Moody.

“Get going, Miss Granger. He’ll be along shortly.”

Hermione jumped, colored, then fled, leaving a quick, “I’ll save you a seat,” in her wake.

Moody gestured to a nearby classroom and led Harry inside. He closed the door behind them with a wave of his staff and regarded Harry, his magical eye twirling in its socket.

“Your godfather and I think you should be under surveillance.”

Harry gaped.

“You know about him?”

“Knew him before too. He’s a good man. He and Dumbledore insisted we get your permission before sticking you with a tracking charm. If it was up to me, I’d have done it anyway but I was outvoted.” His scarred cheeks lifted into a toothy smile. “Maybe I already did.”

Harry blinked, checking his robes out of instinct before he realized how futile such an action was. “Did you…sir?”

Moody chuckled and shook his head. “Not yet, but I probably will if you say no, so you might as well agree.”

“Why do I need a tracking charm?”

“The Third Task is a maze,” Moody said, jabbing a gnarled thumb over his shoulder to a window that overlooked the Quidditch pitch. “We haven’t made much headway on why your name was stuck into that cup, but we’re positive it’s nothing good.” His rolling eye slowed, coming to a stop on Harry, who swallowed. “If I were trying to get you, I’d do it when you’re out of sight and hard to get.”

“I-”

“You’ll also be doing some extra lessons with me,” Moody continued, heedless of Harry’s attempted reply. “We’ll be meeting three times a week after dinner, and you’d better come prepared. I’ve got a lot of tools that’ll help keep you alive but we don’t have much time to master them.”

Harry nodded, his apprehension stalling against the vision of fearful blue and floating silver hair. If he’d been better…

“Yes, sir,” he said, staring back into the eerie protuberant eye. He felt awkward and small beneath the grizzled gaze but his answer split Moody’s features into a wide, excited smile.

“We’ll get along just fine, Potter. See you tonight.”

~~XxX~~

“For bloody…Stop!” Moody’s shout echoed in the large lecture hall, a classroom double the size of the standard rooms, and almost half again as tall. 

Small stone plinths were arrayed in a circle, transfigured up to chest height. Harry let his arm drop, sweat dotting his brow. 

“What on earth was that, Potter?”

“The…er…the stunning spell, sir?”

Moody grumbled as he approached the center of the circle where Harry stood. 

“Barely. But that’s not what I meant. Watch me.” 

He lifted his right hand up to the top of his staff and slid his wand from a recess where it usually rested. With a deft flick of his fingers, he withdrew a thick, dark wand with a bulb at the hilt-end. He turned to face four of the targets and lifted his arm. In a blur of motion and muttering, four bright streaks of red sailed through the room, splattering against the unyielding stone.

“What did you see?” Moody’s question carried the unsubtle subtext of warning.

Harry thought for a moment, not wanting to anger his tutor with glib obvious answers. “Your hand moved really fast. The spells were…really bright?”

“And what did you hear?”

“I heard you saying the spells-” Harry paused, Moody’s frown pressing him on. “Er…quietly?”

“Very good, Potter,” Moody said, his frown retreating. “Now, can you tell me why you saw and heard those things?”

Harry pondered his answer for longer this time, considering his own dismal performance earlier as well. “You were able to cast the spells faster because your arm was faster,” he finally said. “And you said the spells quickly. That meant you could do all four in the time it’d take me to do two.” He hesitated. “Your spells were brighter because you’re older?”

“Good guess,” Moody said, nodding. “Yes and no to that last one. We’ll talk about that later. For now, you’re mostly right.” He put his arm out and traced the air with his wand in consecutive motions. “When you were casting the spell, you would shift, point your wand at the target, then cast the spell.”

A jet of red light burst from his wand as he demonstrated the way Harry had done it, then cast another with the same method.

“Most students do it this way, as this is how you are taught. Stand still, point your wand, perform the motion, intone clearly, and focus. This is good for learning but inefficient for battle.”

“Battle?” Harry choked out.

“After a fashion,” Moody replied with a short laugh. “I expect there will be plenty of nasty things in that maze waiting for you. You will find yourself a more effective duelist and caster if you can blend your motions. This is more difficult with the more complex wand motions, but with the stunner, you can cast at the top and bottom of each strike.”

He sliced his wand through the air in the standard motion, then back down. At the apex of each, a spell burst from his wand with a muttered, “ _Stupefy_.”

Harry mimicked the motion, whispering the word with each shift in direction. His body fell willingly into the rhythm of it.

Moody nodded approvingly. “The reason you heard me say it the way I did was twofold. I said it fast, so I could cast another, sooner. I said it quietly so my opponent doesn’t have any warning as to what’s about to knock them on their arse.”

Harry nodded and turned to face four of his own targets. He repeated the motion once more in the air, then began in earnest. Three red spells flew through the air to impact near their stone targets. The fourth never came, as Harry was so shocked the first three worked that he faltered, the last, _“Stupefy_ ,” failed to come out.

“Well done!” Moody said, clapping a rough hand down on Harry’s shoulder. Harry tensed, then slid out from under the hand with the guise of turning to face his teacher. “I’m sure you’ve noticed it’s much harder to aim that way, but that’s something we can work on. Good work. You know how to listen. A valuable skill among recruits.”

Harry nodded, doing his best to ignore the warmth in his ears. An odd sensation bubbled inside him, something akin to how he felt clutching the snitch in a gloved hand.

“Quit gawking,” Moody barked, sliding his wand back into his staff. “Get back to it. If you pick everything up at this rate, we might get to a few of the more advanced spells.”

~~XxX~~

Harry returned to Gryffindor tower, his arm a lead weight against his side. He found Hermione and Ron waiting for him in the crowded common room. They sat at one of the work-tables, parchment and textbooks arrayed in front of them. The small clay figures for practicing their animation charms lay on the table, Hermione’s twitching feebly. Ron noticed him approaching and brightened, clearly happy for any distraction.

“How was it? Was he mental? Did you cast an unforgivable? I bet he’d start with the Imperius, since you beat it and all.”

“I don’t think Professor Moody would have Harry perform the Unforgivables,” Hermione said, shutting her book with slightly more force than necessary. “That’s a bit much, even for him.”

“We just…worked on the stunner,” Harry said with an apologetic shrug. “Well, on how to cast it a lot faster.”

“Is he going to teach you how to do it nonverbally?” Ron asked. His question drew Hermione’s attention, who focused her curiosity on Harry.

“Maybe? I don’t think so. He said we’ve got a lot of spells to get through, so I doubt we’ll spend much time on one in particular.” He dropped into one of the empty chairs at the table, rubbing his shoulder.

“Did it go well?” Hermione asked.

“I think so,” Harry said, wincing as his muscle rolled beneath his fingers. “I’m sure he’s had way better but he didn’t yell or anything. Well…he didn’t yell because he was angry, anyway. He can be…extreme.”

“That’s a strange way to say he’s off his rocker,” Ron said with a laugh.

“Crazy or not,” Hermione said with a small smile. “It’s a good thing you’re getting some extra practice before the Third Task.”

“No kidding,” Harry said, flexing his fingers. “I’m going to head up to bed. Waving your wand around for a couple of hours is pretty tiring.”

“I’ll come with,” Ron said, grabbing his things from the table before Hermione could object.

“Honestly,” she grumbled as Ron took off towards the stairs. “You’d think he doesn’t care about magic at all the way he avoids practicing it.” She turned a much kinder expression up to Harry. “Don’t forget your regular schoolwork too. I’ll help you where I can, but I can only do so much.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” he said, offering her an exhausted smile. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He climbed the stairs and stepped into his dorm. Neville and Seamus were already sound asleep, and Ron was pulling his threadbare pajama shirt down over his head.

“Training with one of the greatest Aurors of all time,” Ron said, quiet enough to not wake the others. “That’s mental.”

“He really seems like he knows what he’s doing,” Harry said, dropping down onto the side of his bed to take off his shoes. “I can try to show you and Hermione sometime, but I’m pretty rubbish right now.”

Ron let out a laugh. “Moody probably thinks everyone is rubbish compared to him. Dad used to say that he could turn the tide of a battle just by showing up. The only other one who could do that was Dumbledore.”

Harry grunted as he pulled his shirt off, his shoulder protesting the movement. “I’ll bet lessons with Dumbledore would be a little less…shouty.”

“Can you imagine?” Ron asked, laying down as he spoke. “Dumbledore shouting all the time like Moody does?”

“That’s mental.”

Ron let out an agreeable grunt, turned over, and was soon fast asleep.

Harry finished changing and slid beneath the covers, grateful for the warmth they offered. His efforts earlier in the day made his eyes heavy, and let his mind wander.

His last thoughts as he slipped into the world of dreams were of the final Task. Of being lost in a maze with Moody’s commands echoing overhead like thunder, and of a beautiful girl with silver hair and a long orange ribbon, its edges tinted a soft purple.

~~XxX~~

Harry narrowed his eyes at the stone targets as they began their sporadic flight around the ceiling of the empty classroom. Moody’s training had been tough, and he spent the final days before the Third Task exhausted. The first month was the hardest, until his body finally got used to the increased workload. Hermione had made good on her offer to help Harry with his schoolwork, while Ron made an effort to diligently copy Hermione’s notes twice, even if his handwriting was a little illegible at times.

Neither of his friends had been thrilled about his new schedule, but there was no denying that Harry would need all the help he could get. Fleur, in a similar vein, had sent Harry a letter, apologizing for what was going to be a period of near-constant unavailability. After the Second Task, she wasn’t about to leave herself in such a vulnerable position again.

“Go!” Moody shouted, jarring Harry from his thoughts and spurring his wand into motion.

With each pivot of his wand either a stunner or reductor spewed forth, dropping the target to the ground or reducing it to rubble. He spun to face the ones behind him, an errant stunner splashing uselessly against the ceiling when he misjudged his footing and slipped before coming to a stop. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself to move faster. The final stone targets dropped moments later.

His next task was the one he had been dreading. Moody stepped forward and pulled his wand from his staff, the dark wood held in his right hand.

“Ready?”

Harry nodded, gripped his wand tight, and held it out in front of him. He closed his eyes and focused, picturing a wall between him and Moody. 

“ _Protego_.”

He opened his eyes to find a shimmering translucent surface spreading from the tip of his wand. It was faster than it had been before, and he watched as it spread to stand between him and his instructor.

“Here it comes.” A weak red light streaked across the room and punctured his shield with a crack. It impacted his chest, sending him falling back against the floor. He landed in a painful heap in an attempt to keep his head from hitting the stone again. His body reacted sluggishly through the grogginess of the underpowered stunning spell.

“So,” Moody said, thumping forward with a click of both staff and wooden leg. “You can nearly master combining the stunner and reductor in a decent enough volley and miss only a single shot, but you have trouble with the most basic of shield spells? You care to explain that one to me?”

Harry cast his eyes down to the floor, ears burning. The shield spell had been one of the failures during his time with the eccentric professor. He wasn’t looking forward to watching another pale red spell shred his pathetic shield, no matter how he envisioned protecting himself.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” Moody said, drumming his fingers on the edge of his staff. “The way you’re usually meant to do it is to go smaller. That’s the way it’s taught here. Turn a thimble into a tack before you turn a shoe into a bird.” Harry simply nodded. “But we’ve done that, and it hasn’t worked. So!” Moody punctuated the word with a crack of his staff on the ground, making Harry jump. “We’ll do the opposite.”

“The opposite, Sir?”

“It’s about intent, Potter. Since it’s not working small, we’ll go as big as possible. So tell me, Potter. How many people do you want to protect with that shield of yours?”

“As many as I can, Sir,” he answered, frowning. It had been thoughts of the Second Task that had carried him to all his extra practices. His recent recounting of the Chamber of Secrets had been no small boost in its own right.

“All or nothing, huh? You’d make a good Auror, I think.” In a grandiose gesture, he waved his staff through the air, and the classroom door flung open to bang against the wall. “Come in!” he bellowed.

Ron and Hermione stepped through the door, sheepish smiles crossing their faces. They approached, stopping to either side of Harry, who goggled at them.

“What are you two doing here?” he asked.

“We wanted to help, mate,” Ron said with a shrug.

“We asked Professor Moody if there was anything we could do, and he asked us to come tonight, just in case.”

“Help with what?” 

Fear bloomed inside him. A Professor wouldn’t hurt his students. He knew that. 

A bruised side and a trip to the infirmary for a concussion the week before reminded him otherwise. He glanced at Hermione who stared resolutely back at him. He blinked.

A brown halo, floating around serene pallid features.

He shook his head.

“I don’t know, Professor,” he said with a passable attempt to keep his voice from shaking. “I haven’t stopped a spell even once.”

“It’s called incentive, Potter!” Moody said over Ron’s quiet groan. “You’d best get to figuring it out.” He clomped back across the room and turned, his wand held aloft. “Are you going to protect them or not, Potter? Focus!”

Harry nodded, forcing his nagging fears down. Ron and Hermione had been in danger plenty of times, and he hadn’t been able to protect them then. Hermione had been petrified. Fleur had drowned. 

He wouldn’t let it happen again. Even for a simple stunner.

“ _Protego._ ” He thrust his wand forward, eyes open and focused on the threat ahead of him.

Another shimmering wall burst from the tip of his wand. It spread to the floor and crawled along like liquid glass, expanding to encompass Ron and Hermione. It continued to grow, the top climbing to the ceiling. When it finally stopped, it had bisected the room.

“Ruddy hell, Harry,” Ron muttered.

“Excellent!” Moody bellowed from across the room. A single bright red spell shot from his wand, sailing through the air to impact uselessly against Harry’s shield. Moody laughed, and his arm became a blur of motion. Blazing stunners flashed through the air, spilling from Moody’s wand with each pivot. “You have to feel how the spell is molded,” he shouted, continuing his barrage. “Your enemies won’t wait for your spell to make its merry way across the battlefield!”

The spellfire came to a stop and Harry let his wand drop and the shield vanish.

Moody approached with a toothy smile that was twisted by scars, and genuine. “The more you practice and feel it, the faster it’ll get.”

It was advice Moody had given before, though he’d provided no instruction as to what it meant. Harry had improved quickly with the stunning spell, however, so he was inclined to believe in the concept.

“We’ll work on this until the last Task, or until you master it, whichever comes first. You’ve got your basic offensive spells down well enough, so if you can get your defense up to snuff, you’ll stand a much better chance of making it through.” He chuckled. “At the rate you improve, maybe we’ll set you to work on the Patronus.”

Harry nodded. The unknown dangers of the Third Task loomed overhead, watching as he trained. Probably futilely. With the task only a few weeks away, he had begun to work himself to exhaustion each night, just so he would be too tired to worry.

Moody turned and walked to the other side of the room. He spun and leveled his wand. “Again! And stand still, Weasley!”

~~XxX~~

The day of the Third Task had been filled with students gawking through windows and loitering in the outer courtyards in an attempt to get a glimpse of the altered Quidditch Pitch. Rain in the middle of the day had obscured their chances and sent more than a few people scampering inside but by the time the evening rolled around, shining sunlight had burned away the storm and left the grounds outside muggy and damp.

A warm, heavy wind greeted the champions as they shuffled from the castle, led by the ever-jovial Ludo Bagman. A cheer erupted from the spectator stands around what had once been the Quidditch pitch as the short procession drew near. 

Cedric waved to the crowd, a nervous smile plastered on his face while Krum walked alongside him, expression grim. Fleur walked behind the two, her head held high, ponytail swinging with each confident step. Harry brought up the rear, each plodding step driving him closer to gallows ground.

The hedges of the maze stretched high overhead, forcing Harry to crane his neck once they drew close. Light itself got lost in the tangled branches and towering labyrinthine walls, leaving foggy blankness just beyond the arched entrance. For all the excitement and yelling circling the maze, an oppressive air spilled out, rushing over Harry in a wave of dread.

A heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder and he jumped, spinning to find the grinning face of the Minister staring down at him.

“I’ve heard you have made an excellent showing so far, Mr. Potter,” the Minister said, letting his hand drop as Harry stepped out from under it. “The youngest Champion ever, and you’re in the lead!” His grin grew wider. “Keep it up and you just might win!”

Without waiting for a response, he stepped forward to speak with Bagman, pointing up to the stands, then over to the judge’s table to the right. Madame Maxime, Dumbledore, and Barty Crouch were all seated in a row, with an empty chair sitting on the end next to the Beauxbatons Headmistress.

“All right, Minister,” Bagman said with a chuckle. “It’s not as easy as it looks, you know.”

“I know a thing or two about public speaking, Ludo,” Fudge grumbled, shooing the larger man from the group. Bagman moved to stand near the judge’s table, taking a place next to where Karkaroff was finally sitting down. The Minister turned to address the champions. “Are you four ready? It’s your chance to represent your schools and your respective countries to the best of your abilities.”

Four stares met his proclamation and he nodded, his smile growing slightly more wooden. He pulled a spindly tan wand from an inner pocket of his muggle-style suit jacket and pointed it to his throat. A flash of light followed a muttered incantation and Fudge held his arms wide to encompass the watching crowd.

“Welcome, everyone!” he said, his grating voice reverberating throughout the stadium. The din of conversation quieted, leaving a quiet thrum of murmurs as anticipation became palpable in the air. “It is my pleasure, as the Minister of the host country, to announce the beginning of the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament!”

A roar rose from the crowd, loud enough to feel as though the very ground beneath Harry’s feet rumbled with the noise.

“Our champions must make their way through this harrowing maze, filled with monsters, traps, secrets, and other unknown dangers in order to retrieve the Triwizard Cup. The first one to reach the Cup will be crowned Triwizard Champion!” 

He turned to include the four champions standing behind him in his outstretched hands. 

“These four have persevered and come out stronger for their struggles. Tonight they will enter the maze in order of their point total. First, against all odds, will be young Harry Potter!” A cheer arose at his name and all he could manage was a weak wave. “Second will be the lovely Miss Fleur Delacour. Third, the stoic Viktor Krum. And fourth, the stalwart Cedric Diggory!”

He paused a moment to allow the exuberant shouts of a crowd the opportunity to die down. Fleur looked over to Harry and offered him a faint smile. 

“Good luck, ‘Arry. Stay safe.”

“You too,” he said, surprised that he could produce any sound at all.

“Champions! Are you ready?”

As one, the four champions nodded and Harry belatedly realized that he was meant to be first into the death trap. A vagrant part of his mind wondered if he could take his nod back.

Fudge pointed his wand back at his neck and canceled the charm, waving Bagman over.

“Right,” Bagman said as he approached. “There aren’t many rules in this one beyond don’t climb the hedges and fire up some red sparks if you can’t continue. Good luck!”

“ _Sonorus_.” Fudge turned to address the crowd once more, lifting his wand into the air. “I hereby declare the final Task of the Triwizard Tournament, begun!” Green sparks shot from the tip of his wand and Harry stepped forward, into the crushing gloom.

He trod lightly across the long grass, opting to take the first turn he could find.

Hermione’s advice repeated itself in his ears, and absent a better plan, he might as well listen. Always take the same turn in a maze, and you’ll eventually find the end.

He had just finished blasting a thicket of Devil’s Snare from the path when he saw another burst of green sparks shoot into the sky behind him. His breath caught. Fleur was in the maze.

He shook his head and pressed on. In the spare handful of moments they had been able to talk in the final weeks leading up to the task, she had talked of her own stringent training regimen. She said she had been near to mastering another non-verbal spell. She’d be fine.

The path he walked arched to the left. A foggy mist spilled out from somewhere just out of view. Tendrils of translucent vapor coiled across the grass, fingers beckoning him forward. He hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder. Another burst of green. He edged closer to the mist, his body turned to the side in case he needed to run.

The path ahead was shrouded in fog, a rolling undulating mist that pulsed like a heartbeat. He squinted, a shadowy form coalescing in the center. Even from its silhouette, he could see that it was massive. A hulking form with broad shoulders and a rotund middle, it took a step forward, the mist parting to allow access.

Dread settled heavily atop his chest, forcing him to take quick staccato gasps of air. The mist curled around his feet, his legs, wrapping him in its damp embrace. The humid air sunk into his lungs. He panted, frozen in place.

The massive form of his uncle dominated his vision. Red-faced and furious, Uncle Vernon burst through the mist, one meaty hand balled into a fist in front of him.

“Listen here you worthless freak, you’ll not embarrass us again by running off like some delinquent.”

Harry’s knees locked, his mouth worked without sound. The cost of his late-night exodus with Mr. Weasley had come due.

“Petunia’s not here to blather on about her sister this time,” Vernon said, the hand outstretched towards Harry’s neck.

He pressed his back against the foliage wall, sticks and branches stabbing his back through his shirt.

The pain was nothing before the hand that filled his vision. 

It was happening. Like when Dudley had gotten bitten by the snake at the zoo. He swallowed, the breath already locked in his throat.

A burst of off-green light lit the sky nearby and a familiar voice shouted a muted swear.

The hand vanished from his vision as his pulse thundered in his ears. Not again.

A flash of green. An angry scream.

He ran.

Outstretched branches whipped at his clothes as he ducked around a corner, more flashes of spellfire lighting the sky above the maze to his left. Green. Red. Red. Pink.

Turn.

He leapt over a puddle spread across the wide path, scaly hands reaching up to grab at his shoes as he soared over the water. He stumbled as he landed, his knee smashing hard against the firm ground. He tucked into an awkward roll and kept moving, taking the first left he could find. Indistinct shouts played at the edge of his hearing, barely audible against the hammering of his heart and the roar of adrenaline.

Sloppy. If the enemy doesn’t know what you’re casting, they won’t have any warning as to what’s about to knock them on their arse.

A flash of green, another feminine roar of fury. More spells.

_Not again._

His feet thudded against the ground as he sprinted, ducking a winged blur of motion that came screeching from overhead. He heard it hit the ground and skitter to its feet. It let out another shriek that faded as Harry turned down another path, the flashes and voices drawing nearer.

He almost lost stride when the path ahead of him lurched, the walls rushing towards him, brushing against his shoulders as he ran. His breath came in ragged pants and he ignored the burning in his chest, fighting to draw in a deep breath in the crushing tunnel. He could still hear the shouts, growing nearer, but he couldn’t see the flashes, the walls drawing ever higher as the maze sought to trap him in its leafy maw. Twigs tore at his face and hooked his glasses. Wooden hands smothered his shallow breath. He closed his eyes and forced himself forward, to invisible salvation.

With the sharp snap of branches, he tore himself free of the path and fell to the ground, gasping. He rose to his feet and pressed on, the path ending in a turn to the left, towards the duel. Spells came quicker now, lighting the nearby sky with rapid bursts. The turn made him reverse direction, reorienting his goal on his right. A bright red flash lit the sky and shone at the wall at the end of the too-long path.

Vibrant orange light burst to life, flickering and pulsing through the tight-knit branches on his right. Acrid smoke stung his mouth as he panted, a stitch in his side begging for rest. The light vanished and reappeared, the stench of burning grass and leaves thick in the air. Another flash of green light pierced the orange glow, and a visceral scream cut the air.

Harry’s momentum carried him into the hedge at the end of his path, and he found himself separated from the burning, open square that held Krum and Fleur by a multitude of spider’s silk strung across the gap in the walls. He threw himself against it to break through, to help his friend.

Pain flared through his side as he impacted a wall, rebounding hard onto the ground behind him. He struggled to his feet, eyes wide as another fireball soared through the air, splashing against Krum’s hasty shield. Fleur stood a half dozen steps inside the square, her back to Harry. Grass around her blackened from the heat of two roiling balls of flame, one held aloft in each hand. The hedge walls behind Krum blazed, tongues of fire reaching to the starry sky.

Krum emerged from the flames, his glimmering shield still intact in front of him. Fleur raised a hand above her head, the fire shining like a sun in Harry’s vision.

A motion from Krum drew his attention. The shield dropped. Krum’s wand blurred. A jet of horribly familiar green light burst from his wand.

It arced through the air, it’s glow shadowing the creeping flames around them. It hit the ground just behind where Fleur had been standing, sending rocks and earth to violently impact the silk keeping him from helping.

Fleur rose to her feet from where she dove to the side, flames still dancing above her hands. A shriek of rage issued from her; a raw, primal utterance at odds with her crystalline voice. It rang in his ears, persisting long after she should have run out of breath. It shifted, became sharper, fiercer, a double voice sounding in harmony in its rage. The first voice fell away, leaving a painful scream that reverberated in his mind instead of his ears.

A wall of heat washed over him, forcing him to shield his face against the rush of wind. He squinted against the onslaught and scooted backward until his back bumped against the hedge wall behind him. Fleur took a step forward, her hair whipping behind her, buffeted by the waves of fury made heat.

The scream in his mind redoubled, painful and shrill. It took on an ethereal reverberant edge and the fire on the ground around her blazed in response. The flames held above her hands expanded, silhouetting her with their light.

The back of her robes burst open, two massive scaly wings unfurling and flexing, testing the blazing air. They spread, blocking most of Harry’s view. 

Her hair, still visible as it swirled madly behind her in the churning currents of air, began to shift. As though melted by the inferno, the silver length melded and churned, adhering to the space between her wings. Feathers formed from the mass, pure luminescent silver reflecting the flames around her.

Another painful wave of heat accompanied the change and the orange tips of her fireballs, just visible over the top of her wings, flashed to a vivid blue.

Her wings stretched and, with a speed belying their size, they thrust her into the sky. A blazing blue beacon against the oppressive night.

Fireballs rained down on Krum whose shield sprang into existence the moment they left her hands. The flames burst apart against the charm, spilling across the ground, leaving charred earth where it spread. With a flick of his wand, Krum poured water into the air above his head, drenching himself. The runoff turned to steam that occluded Harry’s view of the man.

Fleur circled in the air, shrill peals of frustration ringing in Harry’s mind. She paused once she reached the opposite side, fireballs in either hand. She hurled one down into the steam, another flying wide, directed toward Harry.

He scrambled to his feet and leapt to the side as the fire spilled across the silken barrier. The web turned a bright red then began to smolder, holes appearing in patches across its length. More shrieks filled the air with flashes of blue to accompany them.

The fire vanished as the threads finally fell, opening the path for Harry. He held his wand above his head and doused himself in water as well. Even drenched, the heat was overwhelming. He shielded his face as he pushed through into the area where they fought.

Fleur descended until she was only a few feet above the ground and began to pepper Krum with the azure flames. He reacted quickly, producing another shield charm between him and certain death.

Fleur let out a deafening shriek and Harry thrust his wand forward. “ _Stupefy._ ”

The spell burst from his wand and sailed through the air. It split blue flames rising from the grass and impacted against Krum’s exposed back. He fell to the ground, his shield vanishing in front of the fire streaking towards him.

The fire blinked out of existence in midair, the spreading flames across the ground vanishing along with it. Charred earth and hedge walls remained, wisps of smoke rising to the starry sky.

A few powerful beats of her wings brought her to land in front of him, small bursts of air rushing past with each stroke. She landed gingerly on taloned feet that had burst through the bottoms of her boots. 

Feathers of the same luminous silvery-blond as her hair covered her body, running up her arms and down her neck, disappearing beneath her shirt. A ferocious hooked beak protruded from the lower half of her face, resting below radiant blue eyes. They glowed bright in the darkness around them, a raging inferno of fury held beneath the surface. He took a step back as curled taloned claws flexed, a dangerous shrill call resounding in his mind.

The feathers on her head rippled, the wave traveling through the fine feathers on her face and down her neck, vanishing under her collar. He hesitated, surprised to still see his friend, even through her avian features. Sharp lines of the beak that had once been distinct cheekbones, a graceful step, even in such an alien form and, though glowing, the same curious gaze.

As though cut by a string, the tension left her body. Her wings folded behind her and she regarded him.

One taloned hand extended towards him.

“ _My wand_?” she asked, her unintelligible screech somehow conveying her meaning in his mind.

He blinked and looked around on the ground, feeling foolish when he realized his wand was still clenched in his right hand. _“Accio Fleur’s Wand_.”

It spun towards him from one of the far corners and he plucked it from the air with his left hand and held it out to her.

“ _Thank you,_ ” she said, accepting the wand with one of her clawed hands. She tucked it awkwardly into a pocket, her enlarged fingers disallowing fine movement.

“Do you…” he began before wetting his surprisingly dry mouth. “Do you need to change back?”

 _“I will be exhausted when I do,_ ” she answered, the plumage across her head rippling as she spoke. “ _I would prefer to be exhausted and useless later, rather than now. I do not have much time left. We must hurry. I will be able to handle anything we come across on our way to the cup.”_

“I saw,” he said, glancing around to the scorched earth surrounding them.

Fleur nodded her head once then tilted her head to the sky. “ _Stand back. I will look for a path to the end_.” 

With a powerful sweep of her wings, she lifted skyward, the gusts of wind ruffling his hair and clothes as she rose.

Once she was high enough that he could no longer make out any details, he stepped over to where Krum lay face-down in blackened grass. He stood over the unconscious Bulgarian, studying the back of his head as though he could find answers if he stared hard enough. Why had he been so intent on targeting Fleur? There was nothing inherently wrong with hampering your competition but that spell that had forced Fleur to dive to the side…

He knew that spell…

His blood boiled as he stared down at Krum’s defenseless form. He had tried to kill Fleur…again. No popped charm this time, just vivid green death.

As if on cue, a sharp angry shriek sounded from above, drawing his attention. He found her flying near the top of one of the walls, sparks arcing from the air across one of her outstretched arms. She spun and descended, landing next to him, her glowing eyes fixated on Krum. An odd angry trill rang out from her throat, her fierce countenance darkening further. She whirled to Harry, her intensity locking him in place.

“ _Cast the red sparks for him. We will need to walk. Let us go._ ”

He lifted his wand and fired the sparks into the air. He turned to leave, then hesitated as Moody’s frequent admonitions floated through his memory.

_“You’ve got to make sure they’re down for good, Potter. If they’re not dead, make sure they won’t be coming for you any time soon.”_

Two red flashes lit the area, both impacting Krum’s prone form. He followed with a complete body-bind curse. Fleur turned to him, her ferocity entirely replaced by confusion.

“He tried to kill you,” he said defensively. “We needed to be sure he wouldn’t follow us.”

“ _Good thinking._ ” She pointed to one of the three paths that lead from the small clearing. _“That way, let us go.”_

In one rapid motion, she reached out a taloned hand and grabbed Harry’s wrist, pulling him alongside her.

He nearly had to jog to keep up with her long, purposeful strides. He bumped into her wing as they rounded a corner, the scales surprisingly smooth against his shoulder.

“Did you see anything that might get in our way?” he asked as she pulled him around another corner.

 _“Nothing I cannot handle,_ ” she said, her avian voice sounding within his mind, while his ears simply heard a muted call from her beak.

“Like?”

“ _Skrewts, gargoyles, and a sphinx._ ” Her feathers rippled as she spoke and her pace quickened. _“We must hurry. Turn here._ ”

She froze as they rounded the corner and he barely had enough time to register the wrong side of a blast-ended skrewt. He spun on his heel, reversing her grip on his hand, and dragged her back to safety. The scales of her hand weren’t as smooth as her wing, and dug into his palm, the uneven surface radiating heat. He pushed her out of the way as a blast of explosive fire shot past, grazing his left arm.

He pulled off his robe, glad he’d opted to wear reasonable clothes beneath. An angry red burn climbed up the back of his arm. At least it wasn’t dragon’s fire.

He looked up to find Fleur staring at him, perplexed. “ _Why did you do that?_ ” She asked, tilting her head. _“I am fire-resistant normally. Even more so in this form. It would not have hurt_.”

“Well, I’m not,” he grumbled, lifting his arm.

Her glowing eyes widened, following his arm as he let it drop back to his side.

 _“You are burned,_ ” she said, the vibration in her throat soft; almost a whisper. She lifted a clawed hand toward him before letting it drop and stared at it a moment longer before she stepped forward, her eyes narrowed. 

Flame burst to life in her hand and he recoiled from the heat.

 _“Get behind me,_ ” she commanded, spreading her wings to surround him. _“I will protect you.”_

She stepped forward, the tips of her wings prodding him along, keeping him encircled in his silvery cocoon. The blue illumination of her fire shone around her, though the brunt of the heat was blocked by her body. The light vanished and the dying screams of a skrewt echoed in the night.

“I can help you,” he said, stepping over the charred remains as they continued forward.

 _“Non. You were hurt. Burned. I will not let that happen again. I will not see that again. I will protect you_.”

She allowed no room for argument, forcing him to follow her lead. She paused after a turn, letting out another angry trill. She raised another fireball and threw it, a familiar chittering sound falling silent as the fire vanished.

“I don’t want you hurt either,” he tried, stepping around the blackened acrid corpse of an acromantula.

“ _I will not be hurt_ ,” she said, picking up the pace until they were jogging. She turned to the left, pressing through a narrow path. Her wings pressed against him, the scales hot against his face and arms. They broke free from the path and hurried on. She stumbled as they took another turn. 

“ _We must hurry, I am nearly-.”_

He opened his mouth to speak but was stopped short when he ran into her back. He spluttered as he got a face full of silver hair and feathers. He paused, then gaped as her wings began to shrink around him.

She cursed as she sank to her knees, panting as her wings and feathers dug into her skin. The scales on her feet ground together as they burrowed into pale flesh and her three talons split with a viscus squelch into toes. Her wings jerked and shuddered as they folded into themselves, finally vanishing into the smooth skin of her back.

She sat for a moment, her back rising and falling with deep, heavy breaths. He laid a tentative hand on her shoulder once her breathing began to slow. She jumped at the contact and turned to offer him a wan smile with her normal, if a bit pale, lips.

“Let us go,” she said, her voice ragged and determined. She rose to her feet, kicking off her ruined boots. “The sphinx is around the corner. The Triwizard Cup is just beyond.”

Harry nodded, leading the way with one of Fleur’s uncommonly cold hands on his shoulder for support. They turned the corner to find the majestic beast spread across the massive path, golden eyes trained upon them the moment they appeared.

“Hello, young one…By average still truth,” it said, wrinkling its nose as though smelling something distasteful as it stared unblinking at Harry. It turned then to Fleur. “Hello, little fey.”

She stiffened at the words, her hand tightening on his shoulder. She mastered herself and took a shaky step forward. “Hello. May we pass?”

“You must answer my riddles to pass. One for each of you. Answer correctly and I will step aside. Answer incorrectly and I will attack. You may leave before answering if you desire and find one of the other paths to your goal.”

Fleur glanced over to Harry, the question obvious in her open features. He nodded. At least he stood a chance against a riddle. An unseen gargoyle or another skrewt might be the end of him when Fleur’s fire wasn’t cutting a path for them.

“We accept,” she announced, her voice steady and strong.

“Very well,” the sphinx replied, a slow smile growing across its wide face. “First to you, then.” It focused on Fleur.

_Nature’s keepers, bribery the fee_

_A king and queen herald folklore to be_

  
  


_Or not to be my questions three_

_But answer one you may go free_

  
  


_A gift to hang, tied roundabout_

_Can curry favor for any lout._

  
  


_Colors vary, hues may shine._

_As lavender sings, “Please be mine.”_

  
  


_Potential secrets, they may offer_

_With this gift, for their coffer_

Fleur stared at the sphinx, an unusually unreadable expression flitting across her features. She muttered something to herself in French, then narrowed her eyes.

“A ribbon,” she said, a hint of defiance in her voice and posture.

The sphinx nodded its massive head. “Knowing where you came from will help you understand how to get where you wish to go.”

She said a quiet, “Thank you,” then sat down, resting her back against the shrubbery wall.

“And you?” the sphinx rumbled, turning to Harry. “Are you ready, odd one?”

Harry frowned, then nodded.

_First, think of the person who lives in disguise,_

_Who deals in secrets and tells naught but lies._

  
  


_Next, tell me what’s always the last the mend,_

_The middle of middle and end of the end?_

  
  


_And finally, give me the sound often heard,_

_During the search for a hard-to-find-word._

  
  


_Now string them together and answer me this,_

_Which creature would you be unwilling to kiss?_

“A spider,” he answered after a minute’s thought.

“Very good. Despite its small and seemingly insignificant stature, a spider’s poison can swiftly bring about your end. As can many poisonous things you may think innocuous.” It rose to its feet, towering over them. With heavy footsteps that thudded against the ground, it stepped to the side. “You may both pass.”

Harry helped Fleur back to her feet and they continued forward, Fleur leaning heavily on him as they walked, her arm draped over his shoulder.

“It is here,” she said, her voice quiet as they neared the turn at the end of the sphinx’s path. They turned the corner and stopped short at the circular area ahead of them. The ground was lined with stretches of stone, five paths tracing from various entrances up to a stone short stone plinth. The Triwizard Cup rested atop the pedestal.

She turned to look at him, an excited smile peeking through the exhaustion. “Together?”

He smiled back, the weight of the tournament finally lifting from his shoulders. It was over. 

“You take it,” he said. “You’re the one who got us through this horrible maze, and-”

“And you saved my life,” she cut in. “Together, or not at all.”

He readjusted her arm over his shoulder, sighing in defeat. “Together then.”

They walked the stone path to the cup, her bare feet padding across the walkway as they approached.

“On three?” she asked, grinning.

He nodded, hovering a hand next to his side of the cup, mimicking her.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three!”

They reached out, grabbing the metal on either side.

The moment their hands brushed the cool surface, Harry felt a distinctive tug behind his navel, and they were whisked away from the scene of their triumph.

~~XxX~~

“Dumbledore!” Moody bellowed, barreling his way through the small crowd of Ministry officials that Fudge had invited to stand near the judge’s table. A dog followed at his heels, growling if someone didn’t move fast enough.

Dumbledore turned as Moody approached, his features grim.

“He’s gone, Dumbledore,” Moody said as he approached the platform. Moody scowled at the empty seat on the end. “Where’s Karkaroff?”

“He went to check on Mr. Krum,” Crouch snapped. “He’s in the medical tent.”

“Crouch, you daft bastard. How you managed to catch even a single Death Eater is beyond me. I’d bet my other leg they’re gone.” He rounded on Dumbledore. “You’ve been outmaneuvered.”

“There will be plenty of time for blame later,” Dumbledore said, rising to his feet and summoning a rock with a wave of his hand. “ _Portus._ ” 

The rock glowed blue for a moment, before settling back to its earthy gray. He dropped it into Moody’s hand. 

“This will take you to Hogsmeade, outside the apparition wards. The activation command is, ‘travel.’ Follow the tracker on Harry. If you think you can retrieve him without any trouble, do so. If you run into resistance, come get me and we will use Fawkes to return to rescue him.”

Moody nodded curtly and vanished with the muttered word.

“Dumbledore?” Madam Maxime said, rising to her full impressive height. “What is going on?”

“I suggest you locate Miss Delacour. I believe we find ourselves in the midst of something sinister.”

“Sinister? Dumbledore, what does that mean? We spent months ensuring this would happen without any issues.”

Her question fell upon deaf ears. The headmaster was striding up to the castle, the large black dog on his heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although the next few chaps follow the old closely, they got a lot of attention in pacing and tweaking the verbiage and format to make it flow better and feel a bit tenser, as action scenes should. I'd say this is where the beta channel on the flowerpot discord really started to earn their keep, then didn't stop the whole rest of the story. If you wanna join us, the link is in my profile.


	12. A Graveyard

**Chapter 12: A Graveyard**

Wind and light rushed past; a disorienting mess of nauseating tumult that he could only beg to stop. The hook in his stomach dragged him through the maelstrom, relenting only to deposit him onto rocky earth. His back hit first, driving the wind from his lungs.

He blinked up at the sky, the spots in his vision resolving into stars between the branches of a spindly tree. A groan from his left told him Fleur hadn’t landed any more gracefully at their destination…wherever that was.

He sat up, forcing himself to breathe the musty, dirt-filled air. Fleur followed suit, her exhausted blue eyes sweeping across the moon-lit graveyard around them. 

“There is more?” she asked, her voice a whisper. “In a… _ cimetière _ ?”

“I don’t…” He hesitated, a painful throb bursting to life in his head. He pushed it away, rising to his feet. The throb became a stab that burst anew with each heartbeat. “Something’s wrong.”

The air lay solemn around them, leaving the chirps and scrapes of the twilight animals to his rampant, fatalistic imagination. He spun at a hollow thunk in the near distance to find the cup resting against the base of a gravestone. He heard a rustle of fabric behind him and whirled, wand aloft.

“Something  _ is _ wrong,” an accented, familiar voice said from inside a cavernous hood. Shadow draped the face, leaving nothing exposed. They held their arm up to match Harry’s, an almost black, reedy wand held in his hand. “There are two of them!”

A heartbeat of silence.  _ “Kill the spare _ .”

Harry’s blood ran cold while his forehead became white-hot agony. That voice…

He stumbled to the side, putting himself between Fleur and the man in the dark robe. 

If it was him they wanted, they wouldn’t risk hitting him with a stray killing curse. Would they? 

He ignored the shaking hand on his shoulder and blinked away stinging tears of pain.

“She is weakened,” the man said, his voice shifting down to something coarse; harsh. It chilled Harry’s bones until they creaked beneath the increasing pressure of Fleur’s hand, her nails digging into his skin through his shirt. “We could capture her instead. Imagine it, Barty…”

Before the horrible snake-like voice of before could speak, Harry stepped into motion. Moody’s words rumbling through the pain in his head.

_ ‘If you react, you lose, whether you’re fighting beast or man. Be proactive and dictate the engagement.’ _

“ _ Expelliarmus!” _ The burst of scarlet lit the hill, streaking towards the figure. He grabbed Fleur’s hand from his shoulder and spun. If they could get behind a gravestone…

_ “You fool!” _ the voice hissed from the darkness around them.

There was a shout from his right and his leg locked beneath him, the rest of his body following suit. His momentum carried him to the ground, his immobile hand dragging Fleur down beside him.

She hit with another grunt, pulling with feeble, exhausted attempts to free her hand from his. She dug at her right pocket with her off-hand, fumbling for her wand. Ropes sprang into existence in the air above them and snaked their way around his body, pinning his arms to his sides and wrapping around his middle. They cinched themselves tighter with a final twitch.

Fleur’s pulls at his hand became frantic, her nails scratching him as she fought to get free. She whimpered unintelligible words, her voice breaking with strain as she struggled. He strained against the spell, willing his hand to let her go, so she could run.

A shadow blocked the moonlight.

Fleur began to scream.

It was not the fury-filled shriek of the duel nor of frightened surprise. It was of terror. Of primal agony torn free. Fear harmonized in his chest, dousing him in a cold sweat.

“ _ Silencio _ ,” the man snarled.

Her screams vanished and she thrashed beside him, her feet flailing against the ground.

The man turned as his companion approached, wand still in hand. “Well well, Igor. You almost ruined all your hard work with your banal desires.”

Karkaroff let out a grunt but was interrupted by a furious hiss. “ _ Enough. We do not know how much time we have. If we fail tonight, it will be one of your bodies I take. _ ”

Without further debate, they lifted Harry into the air with a twist of their wands, Fleur’s thrashing body rising alongside. He twisted in the air, his body still locked mid-run. He revolved until he spotted Pettigrew and a horrible misshapen form held in trembling arms.

_ “Here we are again, Harry Potter,” _ Voldemort said, directing Pettigrew with a thin, pointed finger. 

The squat man turned and led them on a winding path, passing gloom-covered gravestones with dusty tops glinting in the moonlight. Mausoleums followed, their walls strangled by vines that climbed to their roofs.

They stopped at a makeshift clearing where remnant stone bases and rubble gathered at the edges, the grass flattened by heavy, frequent footfalls. A cauldron full of a simmering white liquid sat prominently in the middle, its tall, polished sides reflecting the glint of the moon. Smoke poured from a steady fire beneath, the acrid stench of it coating his nose and throat. Coughs caught in his chest, his ribs refusing to expand enough for the reflexive motion.

They were dropped in front of two gravestones along the edge of the clearing. The ropes around his middle coiled and shifted, twisting as they reached for the marble memorial behind him. His side scraped the ground as he was pulled against the stone, then lifted upright. The ropes cinched tighter, driving the air from his lungs. Barty stopped in front of him, a wand that was shorter and the same color as his own pointed at his chest. With a mutter, the body-bind curse broke.

He began to cough, the tickle of smoke long since transformed into a painful burn. Fleur was bound to the stone marker next to him, her feeble protests still silent. Hair, that on any other day would shine in the sliver of moonlight above, pulled taut with the frantic motions of her head, its length slick with sweat and pinned behind her. It pulled at her head as she rebelled against the entrapment with the little strength she had left.

Tears and sweat tracked paths down her dirty face as she raged in utter, torturous silence.

“ _ Get on with it _ , ” Voldemort hissed.

Pettigrew and the robed figure in front of Harry moved to the cauldron while Karkaroff stepped to the side, wand pointed at Fleur and Harry. Barty stoked the fire with a wave of his arm and stood behind the cauldron, his arm raised towards them.

“Bones of the father, unknowingly given.”

The ground beneath Harry shuddered and cracked, leaving his ears ringing. A fine white powder floated up from the unknowable depths below, trailing a dry rotten stench behind. It streamed into the cauldron, turning the contents a deep, lightless black. Barty stepped around and pulled an ornate knife from the depths of his robes and removed his mask, sliding it into a pocket along with his wand.

“Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken.”

Fleur kicked against the gravestone, her voice bound by its own magical ropes. Barty’s manic gaze slipped to her, the grin flashing into boiling hatred. He focused on Harry, raising the blade. The metal brushed Harry’s cheek, the tip cool against his skin. A quick pull left a swath of stinging pain that Harry packaged away. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

“So brave,” Barty mocked, dragging the blade up Harry’s cheek to catch the blood that flowed from the wound. 

He carried it back to the cauldron and let a drop of the crimson liquid fall inside. The potion stopped boiling, instead giving off a scarlet mist that flowed over the iron lip and cascaded across the grass.

“Flesh of the servant, willingly given.”

The bloody blade sliced the air, bisecting his wrist. The hand splashed into the potion, mist coiling in on itself with the disturbance. He stared at Harry as he stepped away from the cauldron to make room for Pettigrew. He cradled his bloody stump against his stomach and let the knife fall to the ground.

Without a word, Pettigrew dropped Voldemort’s horrible miniature body into the churning mists, the small form hitting with a sickening splash. The liquid reacted with ferocious violence. It spit and sparked, throwing a roiling mass of smoke and mist high into the air. The column of particulate and vapor thickened and grew, lifting to vanish into the night.

A metallic crack heralded the final burst of smoke and the cauldron split, falling to either side and revealing a crouched form hidden within. He rose to his feet, stepped onto the grass, and held out his arms. Pettigrew shuffled forward and draped black robes over Voldemort’s pale, bald head.

Harry saw only pulsing, dangerous red eyes.

The man who had denied him his parents, a life of happiness he deserved. The man who, on a whim, consigned him to a torturous existence with the Dursleys.

He strained against the bonds holding him, pushing against the gravestone with his feet. The ropes bit into his skin and strangled the air from his lungs.

“Such spirit,” Voldemort said, a lipless grin adorning inhuman features. He held a thin hand out to Pettigrew, who placed a wand of light-blond wood into the waiting palm. 

“Your reward,” he said, addressing Barty, who had gone pale but still stood upright and proud.

A sinuous line of silver leaked from the tip of Voldemort’s wand. It floated towards Barty, who extended the stump, arm shaking. A glinting silver hand formed from the base, the silver twisting in on itself until it had formed the tip of the final digit.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

Voldemort nodded and turned to Harry. He strode across the grass, black robes fluttering in a warm breeze. He stopped less than a handsbreadth away, close enough for his breath to cool the sweat on Harry’s face. Slitted pupils searched him, scrutinizing every facet of his face. They fell upon the scar and a sneer curled the corner of his mouth.

“A mere babe,” Voldemort said, his voice subdued; a near-whisper meant only for Harry. “Magic that brought down the greatest wizard of an era. So many have fallen before my might, but you…you survive?”

He lifted a hand and placed a finger on the throbbing scar on Harry’s forehead. Searing pain lanced through his skin like a brand. Tears of pain sprung to his eyes and he clamped down on the groan that built in his chest.

“Now  _ you  _ burn at  _ my  _ touch,” said Voldemort. 

He turned around and motioned Karkaroff forward with a wave of his free hand. The tall man stepped forward and proffered his arm to his master. Voldemort pressed his wand to the Dark Mark and looked up into the night, patient. 

“We shall discover who is loyal,” he said, banishing the split cauldron with a flick of his wand to impact against a gravestone.

Harry glanced over to Fleur, who panted, pushing against her bonds, her movements weak and jerky. Wide, frightened blue eyes were locked on Voldemort’s back as the dark wizard stared to the sky.

“They come.” 

An announcement and a snarl mixed into one.

Robed forms with silver masks popped into existence, scattered cracks as more than a dozen figures appeared in a semicircle around Voldemort, who stood stoic in the middle of the clearing. Voldemort surveyed his followers with a slow turn of his head once the echoes of apparition had faded.

“My…loyal Death Eaters,” he said. 

A murmur of agreement swept through the group, a few bowing to their Lord. A vicious shout from Voldemort sent a wave of purple curses sailing into the sky over the Death Eater’s heads. 

“Only four are loyal!” he sneered, his words an insult tossed at their feet.

“The Lestranges, in Azkaban, Barty Crouch, and Igor Karkaroff!” He held his hands out to gesture to the two men who straightened with the praise. Pettigrew twitched where he stood next to Crouch, but stayed silent. “These two have done what none of you tried to do! You live free, prosperous, complacent, while I endured agony as a phantom. By renouncing your oaths and years of service to me, you gained comfort.”

He strode forward to one of the robed figures and jerked the mask from their face. 

“Isn’t that right, Lucius?” he hissed into the pale face of the elder Malfoy.

“M-my Lord,” he stammered. “I used the item you entrusted to me as instructed. I attempted to return you to life.”

Voldemort thrust the mask into Lucius’s stomach with a growl. 

“You did. Eleven years after my disappearance, and even then only after I was forced to make an attempt on my own.” He glared at the other Death Eaters as he turned. “We will discuss…lapses in loyalty at a later date. For tonight-” He stopped turning to face Harry and Fleur. “Tonight I will prove that no wizard is greater than I. His wand, Igor.”

Karkaroff pulled Harry’s wand from his robe and tossed it at Harry’s feet. The length of wood rolled to a stop just at the edge of the crack that exposed the grave below. With a lazy flick of Voldemort’s wand, Harry’s bonds fell away, dropping him onto his hands and knees. Cool grass brushed against his hands and he scrambled to grab his wand.

“On your feet,” Voldemort said, walking to the middle of the clearing. “We will duel, and you will die. Then there will be an end to the one who defeated the Dark Lord.”

Chuckles erupted from the Death Eaters as Harry stood, wand in hand. He let his arm fall to his side. There would be no fighting him properly. The only thing he could do was deny the bastard his satisfaction.

“I won’t.” A calm settled over him as he spoke. He’d grasped for control his entire life, a smoky shape that never coalesced between his fingers. To find that control at his death brought a measure of peace.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed and his mouth drew into a line. 

“We shall see.  _ Crucio _ !”

Molten metal coursed through Harry’s veins, pumping into his muscles and skin with each heartbeat. The ground rose to meet him, each blade of grass a needle that punctured through to bone. Eardrums burst with the deafening roar vibrating through the air around him. The wind pressed sandpaper across his skin and his sweat burned trails of fire. Time stretched through his body, each convulsion and scream endless agony.

Every thought stabbed at his skull with pointed knives. He tried to push the pain away -to put it in the box as he had always done- but every new moment spun into being with violent intensity surpassing the last.

His screams tore at his throat and set fire to his lungs.

Once the agony had all but stripped him of sense, the spell ebbed away. He convulsed on the ground, each brush of grass a razer’s touch.

“Shall we duel?” Voldemort’s voice drifted to him, unintelligible through the embers coursing through his body. 

Harry forced himself up on one arm, his raw nerves screaming protests with each movement. He made to stand but his legs gave way, leaving him on his knees. Glaring at Voldemort through watery vision, he shook his head.

Voldemort’s eerie smile grew and he stepped forward. 

“I was hoping you would resist.” 

He loomed over his captives, Harry staring up at the serpentine features while Fleur still pushed against her bonds, silent tears coursing down her cheeks. Voldemort stared down at Harry, then slowly shifted his gaze over to Fleur, who stilled. 

“Let’s switch tactics, shall we?”

Another swipe of his wand cut Fleur free, dropping her to the ground. She landed in a heap, arms too weak to catch her. Silver hair spilled out beneath her as she pushed herself up. 

Harry had barely a moment to stare into frightened blue eyes before Voldemort spoke again.

“ _ Crucio _ .”

Fleur spasmed and fell to the ground, her mouth opened in a soundless scream. Her face contorted with the agony whose memory still pulsed through Harry’s veins. He forced his arms to move, reaching towards her, mouth open to accept the duel.

Voldemort flicked his wand and Harry’s body refused to move. The body-bind locked him in place, unable to look away from the misery Fleur endured.

“That won’t do,” Voldemort said, twisting his wand in the air causing Fleur to arch her back. He waved a hand over her, shattering the silencing charm.

Her screams filled the graveyard. Wet and shrill, they chilled Harry through the curse that held him powerless in front of her. She bucked against the ground, her head and back creating percussive staccato in her agonized shrieks. Hot tears fell from unblinking eyes as Voldemort sliced his wand through the air, finally ending the accursed spell. She fell to the ground trembling, her breath ragged and shallow.

“So you see,” Voldemort said, turning back to Harry. “When you resist, people suffer.” The body-bind lifted with a wave of his hand, and he walked back to the center of the clearing.

Harry struggled to his feet, tearing his eyes away from the prone form of his friend. Voldemort turned to face him, eyes alight with malicious glee. 

“Once again, we duel.” He bowed to Harry, his eyes never blinking, never moving.

A gong reverberated through the graveyard. The Death Eaters shifted uncomfortably and Voldemort straightened, expression thunderous.

“My Lord,” Barty said, stepping forward. “The temporary ward. The keystone won’t hold long against a concentrated effort.”

“I know,” Voldemort spat. He lifted his wand to point at Harry. “We have run out of time. Raise your wand. We begin.”

Harry bent to pick his wand from the grass where it had fallen during his convulsions. Flayed muscles and shattered bones screamed at him to stop but it grew easier to put away the pain. He straightened, wand in hand. Someone was coming for them. He only had to survive for a few minutes. They’d come back and break that keystone.

And they’d have to beat the resurrected Dark Lord. And he had to survive the whole time.

Ice flooded him, the certainty of death a surprising balm to the remnant fire of the Cruciatus. His arm steadied as he raised it. The longer he survived, the more likely it was that the Death Eaters wouldn’t escape with Fleur. 

He could do that. So long as he didn’t drop to the first spell, he could be bait.

“Begin!” Voldemort thrust his wand forward, cutting a jagged swath through the air. “ _ Avada Kedavra!” _

Harry dove to the side, his shoulder taking the brunt of a failed roll. The gravestone he was standing in front of exploded into shards that peppered bruises onto his skin.

Rocks and dirt tore a body still raw from torture as he scrambled behind a nearby marble column. He peeked around the edge and sent pale red stunners towards the fuming dark wizard.

“Stand up and face me!” Voldemort roared. 

The air around Harry lifted him into the air and set him back on his feet in front of his enemy.

Harry gripped his wand, his fingers screaming for relief from the pressure. He could collapse. Let the spell fly overhead and…

And…

Do what?

“ _ Avada Ked- _ ”

A blinding flash of warm golden light interrupted the curse, followed by familiar crooning that soothed the aches resting in Harry’s bones. He blinked away the spots from his vision to find mayhem unfolding in front of him.

Cackling rugged laughter filled the air while the chaotic mass of Death Eaters scrambled for cover. Shouts of pain and surprise filtered through the laughter along with panicked bursts of, “It’s Mad-Eye!”

In the center of the chaos, Voldemort stood unmoving, his wand still held aloft, pointing at the serene visage standing before him.

“Tom.”

Voldemort’s hand lowered to his side. 

“Dumbledore.”

Flashes of spells lit the graveyard behind Voldemort, the Death Eaters having scattered for cover. The stone memorials lifted from the ground in front of a lone stocky figure, tossed forward and shattered against their hiding places. 

A stream of spells spewed from Moody’s wand, most impacting the environment around him to incredible effect. A rolling disaster of stone and earth pushed towards the hunkering Death Eaters, obscuring vibrant spells that toppled them one-by-one. 

They returned in kind, gravestones and statues tearing from their bases and shooting towards Moody. With an overloud crack, he vanished. Fire burst to life behind the Death Eaters, and another crack resounded through the night air.

Neither Voldemort nor Dumbledore made to begin the duel, both staring at their opponent, unmoving.

Harry broke from his stupor and moved to Fleur, who struggled to sit up against one of the gravestones. Off to the side of the clearing, where Crouch and Pettigrew had been standing, Harry spied a massive black dog vanishing into the maze of gravestones, nose to the ground.

The fire behind Voldemort leapt at the Death Eaters while another crack sounded somewhere in the near distance. Disembodied laughter rolled through the pandemonium.

In a sudden instant, as though an invisible hourglass had released its final grain of sand, the titans burst into motion.

Voldemort threw a barrage of vivid green curses spiraling towards Dumbledore, a sickly pink one following in their wake. 

With a complex curve and subsequent thrust of Dumbledore’s wand to the ground, the grass lifted between them, enveloping the spells in an earthy maw. It burst apart in a flash of blinding white light. A cluster of rocks that had been flung into the air crashed together, molding together like liquid upon impact. 

They glinted a steely black and sliced through the air, then transformed into a fine gray mist with a twist of Dumbledore’s wand.

Red and green curses spilled from the blur that was Voldemort’s arm, each impacted in midair by Dumbledore’s ripostes. Crackling ozone filled the graveyard as the spells burst apart in showers of mingling liquid energy, the deep bass rumble of thunder growing headier with each colliding spell.

The Death Eaters had spread apart, each searching the area nearby for Moody, who would pop into existence with a flurry of spells, only to vanish a moment later. Shimmering shields stood in front of most of them, their heads swiveling for signs of the ex-Auror. Rogue spells from the duel in the center impacted gravestones and statues, reducing them to explosive rubble. The figure of a now single-winged angel toppled from its high platform onto an unsuspecting Death Eater, hitting with a muted thud.

Harry scooted closer to Fleur and raised his wand in front of them. 

“ _ Protego _ .” A shield of his own sprang into existence, curling around him until it closed against the gravestone that had held her captive.

A thunderclap split the air and tendrils of arcing blue lightning streaked through the ground toward Voldemort. He shifted to the side with a snarl, stumbling back. Dumbledore took a step forward, spells cast with each deft movement of his arm. Every twitch and turn sent another vibrant burst of light streaking towards the off-balance Dark Lord. An orange spell found purchase, grazing the side of Voldemort’s head, leaving a bright blistering burn in its wake. Red welts boiled up, marring his unnatural too-smooth skin.

With a sharp cry of fury, a shield coalesced in front of him, catching the rest of Dumbledore’s spells on its surface. He thrust his wand skyward, the deafening sound of breaking glass accompanying the falling wards. He twisted on the spot with a crack, a final volley of blood-red curses spewing from the spot he had been standing. 

The potent spells shot through the air, one bursting apart against Harry’s shield, the light diffusing over the surface. Three Death Eaters fell to the curses while the rest followed their master with simultaneous cracks of disapparition.

Dumbledore sagged as the last echoes of their flight dwindled away. He surveyed what was left of the graveyard around them, then turned to face Harry. 

“Sirius! Alastor!” he called as he moved forward, stepping over one of the scorched trenches gouged in the ground by the lightning.

He knelt in front of Harry and Fleur, tired eyes checking them over. The shield had protected them from the spell but had done nothing for the earthen particulate the duel had flung into the air. Fleur lay with her back against the gravestone, hair trapped beneath her. Dust clung to her sweaty skin, streaked with tears and perspiration. Harry crouched in front of her, wand still clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

Sirius appeared around a nearby half-collapsed mausoleum, a limp brown animal clutched in a bony hand. 

“I got him,” he said, baring yellowed teeth at the rat. “I got the bastard. After all these years…” he trailed off, his manic gaze settling on Harry. He frowned.

Dumbledore nodded and turned his attention back to the two on the ground. 

“Are you hurt? Can you stand?”

As if in response to the question, Harry’s legs gave out, the painful tremors from the Cruciatus stealing the adrenal strength that had kept him upright in his crouched position. Exhaustion filled the gaps not occupied by leftover stabbing pains. Fleur groaned behind him, her head thudding against the gravestone.

“She transformed,” he croaked, his voice wet and shredded from screaming. “She was exhausted even before he…” 

An involuntary shudder seized his body, her screams ringing in his ears, his own pain flaring to life in response.

“You will both be treated upon your return,” Dumbledore replied. “Sirius, you and I will stay to secure the Death Eaters still living, if Alastor left any. We must also try to…locate him.”

Sirius grimaced, his gaze sweeping across the wanton destruction and a small humorless smile flitted across his face.

“Well, he’d have been hacked off if he’d gone out any other way. But still, I hope he’s alive.”

Harry’s heart sank. Moody had likely been killed coming to save him. Killed following the tracker Harry had agreed to. Fleur stirred behind him, slowly raising herself into an upright position from where she had slumped. She drew her knees to her chest, each movement eliciting a wince. 

His spiraling thoughts slowed, memories of Karkaroff’s heinous suggestions surfacing in his muddled thoughts. If it hadn’t been for the rescue, he’d be dead, and she would have endured much worse.

He got his arms under him, pushing away the lancing pain that followed the movement. He rose onto unsteady feet, fists clenched, his wand digging a groove into his palm. Sirius stepped closer, tender concern pulling years from his visage. He wrapped his free hand around Harry’s shoulders, sending a painful shudder rolling through Harry’s body at the contact.

“It’ll be okay,” Sirius said, squeezing Harry’s shoulder. “He’s gone.”

“The Cruciatus,” Fleur whispered, voice raspy.

“The Cruciatus!?” Sirius echoed in surprise, his rough grip on Harry’s shoulder loosening. “It’ll linger for a while. You need to rest.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, rising from where he had knelt. He gestured to the ground next to Fleur. “Please, sit. I will have Fawkes take you and Miss Delacour back to Hogwarts. Poppy can help you get some rest.” He helped Sirius lower Harry to the ground next to Fleur, his back against the cool stone.

He settled, letting out a long breath. Fleur shuffled to the side, leaning over so she could lay her head on his shoulder. Her cheek was cool and her hair brushed against his neck. What little energy remained in him fled, leaving him empty, exhausted, and ever so slightly relaxed. His hand moved slowly, trying to refuse his command.

As his eyelids grew ponderous, he saw Fawkes’ brilliant red plumage flutter through the air. The phoenix alighted upon his knee. Of their own accord, his eyes closed but couldn’t block out the flash as they were whisked from the graveyard by the warm, comforting light.

Instantaneously, Fawkes deposited him onto a firm but comfortable surface. The familiar creak of a door pulled him back from the brink of unconsciousness and the rapid bustle of feet made him open his eyes to the relative darkness of the hospital wing.

“Mr. Potter?” Madam Pomfrey’s voice came from a great distance as he forced himself up, tremors crawling through his legs and arms.

“We-” he tried, the word failing against the ragged wet pain in his throat.

The matron stopped at the end of the bed, critical eyes tracing across his body and Fleur’s twitching unconscious form next to him. “The Beauxbatons Champion? Mr. Potter, what happened?”

He was spared the agony of a vocal answer by a shining burst of light through one of the windows on the far wall. A radiant silver phoenix landed on the bed next to them and scanned the room. Once finished, it fixed its gaze on Madam Pomfrey and spoke with Dumbledore’s voice through a closed beak.

“Poppy, these two have suffered under the effects of the Cruciatus. I can give you more information once I return. I leave them in your capable hands.”

With a face as white as the hospital robes she wore, Madam Pomfrey pointed her wand at the cabinet that held her restorative potions and summoned two to her waiting hand.

“Tilt your head back,” she said, voice so soft it didn’t echo through the painful caverns of his ears. She tilted the bottle just above his lips so it didn’t touch, and poured. “Drink in big gulps. They will hurt the same as small ones, but you will have to endure fewer. This will help you sleep while the magic dissipates. It won’t be restful sleep but you won’t have to endure the after-effects of that horrible curse.”

She lifted Fleur from the bed with a flick of her wand, her cool body still a welcome presence, even through the painful contact. He felt his eyes grow heavier, a brief sensation of falling, then-

Nothing.

~~XxX~~

Sirius kicked at one of the boots of a dead Death Eater, a pale grimace flitting across his face. “Kind of Voldemort to get a few for us.”

“Indeed.” Dumbledore pulled another hood from a shadowed face and let out a long, tired sigh. “The blood-boiling curse is a horrible way to go. I expect the ones dispatched by Alastor should be grateful.”

Sirius looked to where they had placed Moody’s bloody and battered body, his head resting atop a folded set of Death Eaters’ robes. “I’ll bet he’ll gripe about not getting more when he wakes up.”

“He’s lucky to be complaining about anything,” Dumbledore said, pulling the last hood up with a twitch of his hand.

Sirius let out a low whistle at the sight of the exposed face. “Can’t say I’m sorry to see that one gone. He always was a complete bastard, even back when he and Cissy were dating.”

“Even with his heinous actions, he was still a father and we should treat that loss with its due respect. Many students have lost parents tonight and such a loss can be a pivotal point in a young person’s life.” Dumbledore stood from the elder Malfoy’s body and examined the half-dozen corpses arrayed in front of them. “We have quite a lot of work to do. First of which being your rapid reinstatement. If we are going to convince the Wizengamot to declare war, having your house’s backing will make the process far easier.”

“If you say so,” Sirius said, staring down at the stunned rat in his hand. “I say we give them the memories and be done with it.”

“We will, but mobilizing the entire Ministry -ideally the ICW as well- will take a tremendous amount of evidence. Not simply the words of a man at odds with the Minister.”

“Fudge is at odds with everyone who’s not lining his pockets. The corrupt bastard didn’t even try to have me retried.”

“That is why we must do things properly. This is too important to allow Cornelius his petty squabbles.”

Sirius handed Pettigrew over to Dumbledore, shadowed eyes never leaving the rat. “I’d better not be here when the Aurors and DMLE arrive.” At Dumbledore’s nod, he shrank and twisted into the great black grim and padded off to hide among the graves.

~~XxX~~

Harry blinked bleary unfocused eyes up at the ceiling of the hospital wing. Light spilled into the space through the windows, illuminating the vague shapes of the rafters with the morning sun. Or was it the evening sun?

He sat up to find his covers kicked down around his feet and his clothes replaced with a soft set of hospital robes. He yearned to place his head back on his pillow, to sleep for however many days he could get away with. The tremors and aches that had accompanied the Cruciatus had left, leaving bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. He fumbled at his nightstand for his glasses, the sound cutting a nearby hushed conversation to a stop. He put his glasses on in time to see Dumbledore sit carefully at the end of his bed.

“Hello, Harry,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, Sir. Still tired, though.”

“I am exceedingly glad to hear it.”

Harry sat up straighter, clear thought blooming through the fog of exhaustion. 

“Fleur?”

Dumbledore smiled at him, the edges of his eyes wrinkling. He stood and pulled aside the barrier between his bed and the one next to it to reveal Fleur.

Harry sagged in relief to find her covers rising and falling with the deep breaths of sleep, though her arms and legs still gave an occasional twitch. Her hair was spread out next to her, cleaned of the bits of grass and rubble that had caught in its length during Dumbledore’s duel with-

“Voldemort.” He found the word escaping him even as the thought barreled through his mind.

Dumbledore returned to his seat at the end of Harry’s bed and nodded.

“And Moody!”

To his incredible relief, Dumbledore shook his head with a smile. “Alastor is recovering in St. Mungos. It is a testament to his considerable skill that he survived that night.”

“Sirius?”

“I am pleased to say that the capture of Peter Pettigrew will ensure that we can find justice for Sirius. Miss Delacour’s father is doing us a special favor and keeping an eye on the situation as a representative of the ICW in addition to his duties as Ambassador. There will be no unjust sham-trials this time. You have my word.”

“When will he be free?” Hope bloomed through his sluggish thoughts. If it happened fast, he wouldn’t have to see his Uncle after running away. Even a reduced sentence at the Dursleys would be a miracle worth waiting for.

“It is hard to say. The Ministry is reluctant to admit to an error, though they will have no choice in the end. Conservatively I would expect it to be near to the end of the summer.”

The world darkened around Harry as Dumbledore spoke. The uncertainty of a mad dark wizard was somehow less oppressive than the certainty that came with his Uncle’s rage.

How long did he have left? Had he survived Voldemort simply to be thrust back into a different sort of pain and hatred?

“Sir-”

“You need to rest, Harry,” Dumbledore said, lifting the covers up to Harry’s chest. “You’ve been unconscious for days but you were not afforded the relaxation of sleep while your body pushed out the remnants of Voldemort’s spell. Rest assured that I will do everything in my considerable power to see Sirius freed as soon as possible. Perhaps you might have the opportunity to visit once it is all over.”

No matter how he pushed against the anxiety that crept into his chest and the intrusive thoughts of his relatives, sleep took him anyway.

~~XxX~~

Harry was jerked awake by a light prod on his shoulder.

His hands scrambled around him. It was somewhere in the grass nearby. Soft earth met his probing hands, his wand nowhere to be found. Fleur’s screams echoed in his mind as Voldemort twisted his chalk-white wand with a snarl. 

He had to do something. Anything. Anything but continuing to sit, paralyzed.

“’Arry,” Fleur’s voice said through her screams. A warm hand on his chin brought the world around him into existence as she pushed his head gently up. “Look at me.”

He blinked at her fuzzy outline, unable to distinguish much more than the shine of her hair in the light, and the general shape of her face. The familiar touch of her accent on his name brought a slight smile through the fading gloom.

“Fleur?”

“Your glasses,” she said, placing them into one of his hands and letting her hand fall from his chin.

“Thanks.”

“I woke up in a similar state,” she said, her hands clasped in her lap. She sat next to him on the bed, wearing a similar white robe to the one he had been dressed in. “That was…” she hesitated, rubbing her upper arms with her hands. “That really happened. With Voldemort?”

He could only nod.

“It is not the first time you dealt with him, no? Your story is well known, even in France. The hatred he so clearly held for you…” she shuddered.

He shook his head. 

“The Chamber wasn’t even the first time.”

“I would like to hear more,” she said, a weak smile flitting across her lips. “But…some other time. There is plenty to deal with in the present, if any of your other stories from the past are comparable to the first.”

He felt his spirits bolster a little at her words. He would have expected her to hate him for dragging her into the mess he always found himself in with Voldemort. Before he could say anything, she barreled on, her hands wringing the ends of her hair.

“I-I want to talk to you about a few things,” she said, accent thick for her rapid nervous speech. “I know you have just woken up and I can wait if you prefer, but in the time we have gotten to know each other, I have seen that you do not often share your thoughts or feelings.”

He sat up straight, alert. He couldn’t say she was wrong but there was nothing wrong with being a private person. There was so little he could keep back from others of himself. The entire wizarding world had known his name when he’d been called ‘worthless’ instead and had known his history when he had known nothing of his origin. 

There was nothing wrong with keeping things back. Just for him.

“And that is okay!” she said, hands bobbing in a placating gesture. “It is just…I am being selfish again.” She muttered to herself in French, then fixed him with a solid, determined stare. “I would ask you how you felt about…about…” she made vague gestures in front of her face, before letting her hands fall to her lap. “About that…thing that you saw in the maze.”

“Your transformation?” he asked, frowning. A violent twitch preceded a flush that bloomed across her face and neck. Her gaze fell to the floor and she nodded. “It was…pretty cool,” he said, thinking back. He had been curious since Hermione had brought it up. He had been too far from the Veela on the field at the World Cup to get a good look.

“Pretty cool?” she echoed, turning an incredulous stare on him. “I turn into a rampant monstrous creature, and you think it is ‘pretty cool?’”

“Well,” he said, shifting positions while he searched for the words. “It didn’t seem monstrous to me. I think it’s cool to be able to change. My dad was an animagus, so I’m a little jealous. Besides, you still…seemed like you.”

She stared at him, her usually open expression unreadable. After a moment, she smiled at him. “Thank you. My parents asked me to once again extend the invitation to our home. Father was beside himself that he has yet to meet you properly.”

Harry stared down at his blankets and shook his head. “I can’t,” he said.

“You will still be welcome at Christmas,” she said. “Until then, perhaps we could write to each other? I will be leaving this afternoon. My parents are speaking with your headmaster right now.”

His heart ached as he shook his head again. “My relatives…”

“Do not like magic,” she finished for him. “I remember.” She tapped a finger on her chin and smiled. “What about the muggle post? I am sure it will take longer for letters to get from England to France with that method, especially compared to your lovely owl, but it is better than nothing, is it not?”

He hesitated, quelling the impulse to deny the possibility. Getting the mail was one of his morning chores. It could work.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “That should be fine.”

Her answering smile lit her face with excitement. “I have never had someone to write to that was not family. I am looking forward to this.” She rose from his bedside and brushed at her white robe. “Please, owl me your address before you leave Hogwarts? I will forget if you tell me now.”

He nodded, the oppressive specter of his uncle a little fainter for her luminous smile.

  
  



End file.
